by Rose Amberly
And just like that, the easiness vanished, like a soap bubble popping into air. A shadow passed over her face and, for an instant, a flash of pain, before she looked down at her hands in her lap.
“What is it? What did I say?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
Clearly not nothing. He waited.
Finally, she shook her head slightly as if shaking off a distant memory. “It’s just the last person who compared me to other women did it to hurt me.”
Crikey.
“Would you believe I meant it as a compliment?”
She nodded, but her face was still troubled, and her pretty smile didn’t come back.
Before he could say more, she opened the dessert menu, probably for an excuse to look away from him.
All right, time for him to do what he did best: fix the situation.
A change of topic was the best tactic. “May I order for you?” He reached across the table and took the menu gently from her hand. “How about something to make up for the interrupted main course?” He winked. “Are you a cold-pudding or a warm-dessert kind of lady? They make an exceptional salted caramel fondant.”
Unexpectedly, she cracked up.
“What now?”
“Nothing. You just reminded me of someone.”
“But I hope not the same person who compared you unfavourably to other women.”
“No, not him.” The word him carried a darker cadence, as if the three little letters had turned hard and black.
He’d clearly stumbled into private territory and should retrace his steps. A half-smile remained on her lovely lips, but the laughter had faded. Probably the memory of that day—It’s not a day I like to remember. He ought to change the subject, find a new topic. He watched her as she watched the Rocco Borghese light sculpture in the centre of the restaurant. Yes, Italian lighting designers, he could talk about that, a safe topic.
“Will you tell me about him?” To hell with safe.
Millie didn’t answer.
He ordered their dessert and poured her another glass of wine.
“We were at school together,” she said at last. Her voice had gone very quiet, and she kept her eyes on the Rocco Borghese as the story came out, slow, hesitant.
A mournful saxophone solo played in the background; the lights had dimmed, making the dinner tables look like little private islands of soft glow. He listened in silence, not wanting to interrupt her.
She kept to the simple facts, no details, no emotion, no self-pity. She even made it sound like just one of those things that could have happened to anyone. He suspected she was holding back a lot more. But even without reading between the lines, he was shocked. Bloody hell, the ex-husband sounded like a twenty-four-carat bastard.
What astonished him even more was how little Millie blamed her ex. She told the story with no accusation, giving herself equal responsibility for allowing the marriage to deteriorate. She even tried for a little humour.
“Isn’t it typical, too late you think of what you should have said? I had lots of angry things I wanted to tell Henry, and my boss, but they weren’t there and you were. So you got the sharp end of my ten-year silence. Lucky you.” Her lips twisted in a wry smile. “I was hoping you wouldn’t remember the shouting woman in the street, or the gibbering wreck in the café.”
“You weren’t a gibbering wreck. Far from it. My memory is of someone with tremendous courage.”
“Courage? Sitting in a café, shivering and drinking tea? I thought your world was filled with tougher people than that.” She tilted her head, gently teasing, clearly wanting to move off the difficult subject.
“In the middle of what you say was the worst day of your life, you were ready to give me your insurance details, to put yourself in my power. I could have claimed thousands off you for a scrape of paint. That’s courage.”
“Thank you.”
She reached for her wine, then changed her mind and took the water glass, sipped, then leaned back in her chair and looked around. But he wasn’t ready to drop the subject. An injustice had taken place, and keeping quiet felt like closing his fist on a thorn.
He sat forward, placed his elbows on the table and laced his fingers under his chin. “What can I do to help?”
Her smile widened. “You’ve already helped by leaving your newspaper behind.”
What was she talking about? “My newspaper?”
“Don’t you remember?” There were bright stars in her hazel eyes. “You had a newspaper with you which you forgot in the café.”
Oh, that. “How did that help?”
“I found this job.” She said it as if it should have been obvious.
“My newspaper?” It took a moment for the penny to drop. Of course, she had said she’d seen the job advert in a newspaper, and he’d suspected her of lying. What he’d sensed, the hint of concealment, must have been her worry about being recognized. He had been suspicious over nothing.
He topped up her wine glass and her ice-water glass. A tiny thing to make up for his mistrust. “Would you believe I never read that particular paper? I only bought it to check if the recruitment agency had advertised the vacancy correctly.”
“That’s a mind-blowing coincidence, because I’d just been told I was ugly, so your advert fit the bill. If it wasn’t for your paper, I might now be working in some dead-end job and living in a bedsit.”
No, what was mind blowing was how she could put a positive spin on her husband’s insults. The man was a gold-standard scumbag treating someone like Millie so badly. She would never ask for help, but someone needed to do something for her, someone with proper resources.
“Look, Millie, I can help,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I know barristers in family law. We can take him to the cleaners and get you your rightful share.”
She seemed genuinely taken aback, as if it had never occurred to her.
“You supported him. You are entitled,” he said.
She shook her head. “No, no. When I applied for the divorce, I said I wanted no financial settlement.”
“So? You can amend the claim.” He ran through possible names in his head. Good lawyers who would extract her rights out of that philandering son of a bitch.
Millie looked, if anything, more alarmed. “Good heavens, I was only too glad he let me divorce him on the grounds of infidelity. Otherwise it would have dragged on for ages if he didn’t agree.” She rubbed her arms as if chasing away goose bumps.
“Of course he agreed. Since he gets a quick divorce without a financial penalty, he probably bit your arm off at the elbow.”
Her eyebrows scrunched closer above troubled eyes. “I just want it to be over. I want to let everything go through smoothly. If he doesn’t cooperate, I’ll have to wait five years for non-consensual divorce.”
“You don’t have to worry. We won’t upset the apple cart.” He wanted to take her hand to reassure her, but he suspected it might make things worse.
“Look, Millie, this is my world, and I know what I’m doing. There are many ways to twist his arm behind his back. He wouldn’t dare mess you around.” He reached for her hand but stopped short and left his hand a couple of inches from hers on the white tablecloth. “Believe me, I’m a very powerful man. I’d make sure of it.”
She didn’t look convinced, so he expanded. “Law is a small community. If I drop a few words in the right ears, he’d soon find clients walking away from him.”
She shook her head, and her hair came loose again and curled into the side of her cheek. “No. I appreciate the offer, I do. But I really, really don’t want anything from him.”
He couldn’t understand. “Not even revenge?”
“Oh, revenge?” Her expression relaxed, and the haunted look disappeared.
But before she could say more, Hitten arrived with their dessert and coffe
e. He placed their plates, arranged spoons and the cream jug. He fussed with the coffee pot, cups, sugar bowl and fresh napkins.
George had never hated a waiter more.
At last they were alone. “You were saying?”
“What was I saying?”
“Revenge.”
“Oh, that.” She had just taken her first taste of the dessert. Her eyes closed while she pulled the spoon out of her mouth. It left a small caramel smear on her full bottom lip, and the tip of her tongue swept across, licking it quickly.
His mouth went dry.
She opened her eyes as if she’d discovered a million pounds inside a paper bag. “Who needs revenge when you could have a fondant like this?” She cut another small bite into the side of the fondant, and hot, thick golden caramel oozed out onto her plate.
“Seriously,” she continued. “They say the best revenge is living happily. I am on this beautiful island, have a great job and good friends. I am wearing an expensive dress I’d never have dared to buy six months ago, and sitting in this chic restaurant.” She scooped a little caramel and raised it towards her lips. “Having a delicious dinner and listening to live music. What more could I possibly want?” She put the dessert in her mouth as if to make the point, and her eyes twinkled happily.
Definitely not like other women.
He watched her sip her coffee and eat. Lost in the moment, her shawl had dropped out of sight. She had velvety skin burnished a warm gold. The exquisite column of her throat tapered into the delicate depression between her collarbones. Below that, the green-gold dress moulded her to perfection. The silk looked cobweb-fine; it clung to the peaks of her —
She was asking him something.
“Sorry?” his voice came out like gravel. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Sorry, what?”
She repeated the question, but he couldn’t make his mind focus on the words. All he could see were her lips, wet and inviting—
Look at her eyes. But then he imagined them closing in ecstasy, her neck arching backwards. His hands itched to reach under the soft green silk.
In desperation, he did the only thing he could think to do. “Let’s go out in the fresh air.”
ELEVEN
Midnight
Before Millie could even understand what George meant, he stood up and moved away from the table in a fast, fluid motion. Leaving her speechless—and if she was honest, a little disappointed. She’d been enjoying herself, and he’d brought the axe down so abruptly.
“Don’t we have to pay?” she asked.
“No need, we have an account.” He didn’t even turn to face her.
Millie picked up her things and followed. He waited for her a few steps away, and then they walked together towards the exit. He was too much of a gentleman to walk off and leave her, but he may as well. His body was mere inches from her elbow, walking by her side, but he could’ve been a hundred miles ahead. Something had closed up in him, and she didn’t know what or why.
It didn’t really matter. He’d been blowing hot and cold all evening. Her lips twisted as she flicked the right edge of her shawl over her left shoulder. She felt like a guest invited in only to have a door slam in her face.
In fact, he’d been blowing hot and cold ever since she’d met him that day on a London street. He’d flipped between coldness and consideration, distance and warmth.
Well, he could take his revolving moods and shove off.
Outside, Evans sat patiently in his driver’s seat behind the horse, waiting for them. Had he waited all evening?
George went ahead towards the cart and exchanged a greeting with Evans before he turned to her, offering his hand to help her up.
Millie looked from his hand to the polished leather bench she was supposed to share with him. It looked like a love seat. They’d be thrown together as the cart swayed from side to side all the way home.
Not on your Nelly!
In reality, she felt a little like Cinderella. Earlier that afternoon she’d had two fairy Godmothers dress her and transform her into a beautiful princess, she’d had a magical evening with Prince Charming, but now, as if the clock had struck twelve, her evening had been terminated. She may as well be in rags sitting on a pumpkin.
Fine, so be it.
“It’s a nice night. I think I’ll walk.” She would accept her pumpkin with pride.
Secretly she was pleased to be walking out on George this time. She resisted the temptation to glance over her shoulder to where she’d left him standing alone in the paved courtyard in front of Pascale’s.
The horse cart crunched on the stones and came past her. She told herself not to look, but her eyes didn’t seem to be taking orders anymore. Of their own will, they stole a glance at the cart as it rumbled past.
Empty.
What?
Evans flicked the reins and turned west towards the village at a fast clop.
And now she did look behind her, only to find George closing the distance to her side.
“What are you doing?” It didn’t come out friendly, but friendly be damned.
“Walking home.” He pointed with his chin in the direction that would take them home. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” He slowed down, as he came level with her at the start of the lane.
Typical man. Playing aloof until you pulled away, then he started chasing you.
“No, you don’t need—” She tried again, more politely. “I didn’t mean to drag you with me. I am happy to wander home by myself.”
“Wander is right. You don’t know the way.” He held his hand out to her.
Oh, for crying out loud. “I’ve been here three months, and I’m a good walker, and it’s not so far—”
He interrupted gently. “Have you ever walked at night?”
“No, we normally have too much to do in the house, I’m sure—”
“Look around, Millie. What can you see?”
They were alone at the start of the lane. The warm night was still except for the sound of the cart crunching away somewhere far behind them. She scanned the way ahead, beyond the tiny circle of light spilling out of the restaurant. It was very dark. The lane was unlit, apart from a tiny lantern angled downwards to illuminate a milestone with arrows east and west. Beyond that, the island was a featureless black mass.
“You remember that we don’t have street lighting on La Canette?”
Oh.
Yes, she remembered being told, when she first arrived. Now with summer upon them, the sun didn’t set until very late, and she usually went to bed early and rose early for her 5am. walk. She’d never had to be out on the unlit streets.
George held his hand out to her once more. “Shall we?”
She ignored the hand and set off at a brisk pace ahead of him. He chuckled softly. Arrogant sod! She quickened her step.
Suddenly she felt his strong, warm hand take hers.
“I see that you don’t like to be helped.” He tucked her hand into his elbow. “But if you take a spill into a ditch, I’ll have to carry you to the clinic. And something tells me you’d like that even less than holding my arm.”
She would. She would definitely hate being carried like a—like a— some kind of… Yes, she would definitely hate being in his arms.
His arm felt far too solid. Goose bumps rose on her skin.
“What about you?” she asked. “Or don’t the Du Montforts ever stumble?”
“Frequently.” He laughed, the sound rich and deep in his throat. “But not here. I grew up on this island. As a child, I played hide and seek on every inch of it, so, I know these lanes like the back of my hand.”
They fell into step, walking silently. His hand, over hers, was toasty warm. The cuff of his shirt pulled slightly up, revealing the slim, elegant Habring watch she remembered from their first meeting. It gleamed a fai
nt platinum, held by dark leather around his wrist. There was less than a millimetre between his elbow and the side of her breast.
Wasn’t he a fine one to complain about his father’s closeness with staff when he himself thought nothing of holding her hand in his elbow like lovers on a midnight stroll?
“Penny for them?” His voice broke the silence.
“I was thinking about having two bosses.”
His feet stopped, and he looked down at her. “You don’t have two bosses.”
“Then which of you is my boss? You, I suppose.”
George resumed walking, his grip on her hand, if anything, tightened. “Millie, you are my father’s assistant and companion. You work for him, not me.”
Her eyes were growing used to the dark, and she could see his proud profile against the pale stone wall behind as they passed the last farmhouse in the village. Fields and orchards surrounded them on both sides. As she walked and considered his answer, a sceptical “hmm” sounded in her throat.
He looked down at her. “What?”
“That’s not really true, is it? You are my employer. You recruited me and—”
“Just a legal technicality. My father is your employer in all but a small aspect. I am just a son who cares about his dad’s safety.”
She could let him off the hook, but something told her this man got his own way more than was good for him. “But you just spent half the evening interrogating me about my work ethic.”
His teeth flashed briefly in the dark. “Sometimes I am a son who cares too much.”
They walked a few steps in silence. When he spoke, his voice was a little less confident. “I am never at my best when dealing with my father’s issues. I’m sorry if I interrogated you. I was worried.”
Millie thought about this. “So, you don’t have the authority to fire me?”
“I’m not your employer,” he repeated with emphasis.
“And if I left, wouldn’t you be the one to select my replacement?”
A muscle tightened in his forearm under her fingertips. “I’d leave it up to him.” He paused. “As long as he didn’t pick a—someone … unsuitable.” The word almost sank under the weight of his judgement.