by Jill Mansell
So for the moment…no men. Problems like them she could quite easily do without.
She turned as something tugged timidly at the sleeve of her shirt. Charlotte stood before her, looking distinctly ill at ease but remorseful.
“I washed my face and hands, Mummy,” she said, her eyes searching Camilla’s for forgiveness. “And I’ll play with Gussie too.” It was the nearest her daughter had ever come to an apology, thought Camilla, bursting with pride both for Charlotte and herself.
“I’m glad to hear it, darling,” she said fondly, brushing a strand of light-brown hair from her daughter’s smooth forehead. “You and Gus could be such good friends. When you’re hungry, I’ll make you both some lunch, OK?”
Charlotte assumed an expression of great importance. Reaching behind Camilla’s chair, she picked up a tray and carefully handed it across to her. “I’ve made you some,” she announced, pointing to the glass of raspberry soda, a mangled peanut butter sandwich, and a plate piled high with flapjacks and fruitcake. “And the paper was on the front doormat so I brought it for you to read,” she added anxiously. “You like reading the paper, don’t you, Mummy?”
Camilla, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time, bit her lip and said, “I love reading the paper. Thank you, sweetheart—this is very thoughtful of you. Mmm.” She took a sip of the disgustingly sweet drink and rolled her eyes in appreciation. “Just what I wanted.”
Charlotte beamed, hopping from one leg to the other. “I’m good at making lunch, aren’t I, Mummy?”
“You certainly are.” Catching sight of Zoë, silently applauding behind Charlotte’s back, Camilla said, “And I’m going to share this lovely sandwich with Zoë, because she’s my friend. Here you are, Zoë.” Carefully dividing the sandwich, which had evidently started off being spread with blackcurrant jam before Charlotte had finally decided that it should be peanut butter instead, she handed it across to Zoë.
“How heavenly,” remarked Zoë, pulling a face that only Camilla could see. “And how nice to have friends, Charlotte, don’t you think?”
“Gussie’s my friend,” said Charlotte complacently, basking in the warmth of her mother’s approval. “I’m going to go be nice to her right now.”
When she was out of earshot, Zoë said in a low voice, “Congratulations on the rebirth of your daughter, even if this is all rather too Sound of Musicky for me.”
“Shut up,” replied Camilla, grinning as she quietly tipped her drink into the grass beneath her chair, “and eat your lovely sandwich.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up; I’m your friend,” retaliated Zoë, expertly tossing her half of the sandwich over the fence into the next door’s garden. “And instead of sitting there looking smug, why don’t you read your paper?”
* * *
Camilla stared in horror at the front page, willing herself to have read it wrongly. Her fingers, she noticed irrationally, were gripping the paper like frozen claws. It had to be a mistake…it had to be.
But the headline screamed “Nico—Married!” and as she continued to gaze at it, and at the picture below of Nico embracing a small, curvaceous woman, she realized that there could be no mistake whatsoever, no doubt at all that the one event that had never even crossed her mind had actually happened. Those brief doubts that she had taken such pains to bury, that faintest of faint hope that somehow one day, miraculously, they would be reconciled, was now obliterated. While she had been wasting time, mourning the loss of their fragile relationship, Nico had been busy falling in love with someone else…and marrying her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“I need a woman,” repeated the male voice on the phone, and Camilla, acknowledging that it was an extremely sexy voice, deep and American accented, reached for the appointment book.
“What kind of assignment is it, and when is it planned for?” she asked, tapping her pen against her cheek and wondering why it was that men with impossibly sensual telephone voices always turned out to be fat, pink, and slug-like.
“I need her tomorrow, from about nine in the morning until midnight,” said the American voice caressing her ear like silk. Despite herself, Camilla smiled and softened. He really did sound gorgeous.
“Is it a photo assignment, Mr…?”
“Lewis. I daresay she’ll have her photograph taken, yes.” He paused, then added casually, “But all I really want is a companion, an escort if you like, for the day.”
Correction, thought Camilla, her sense of humor fading fast: Why was it that men with sensual telephone voices always turned out to be sex-obsessed creeps?
“Mr. Lewis, Sheridan’s is not that kind of agency,” she told him coldly. “Please do not call this number again.”
When the doorbell rang forty minutes later, she cursed Zoë for always losing her keys—how had she ever managed before Camilla had moved in?—and made her way gingerly toward the front door, splaying her bare toes and praying that the wet nail polish she had so painstakingly just applied wouldn’t smudge.
Sunlight streamed through the door’s crimson-and-green stained glass, its fruit-gum shades reflecting upon the polished wooden floorboards of the hall. Beyond the colored glass, however, she was able to make out the outline of a figure that definitely wasn’t Zoë. There appeared to be some kind of giant out there, the fact that she was barefoot only accentuating his great height.
“Good morning,” said Camilla, her no-thank-you-we-already-have-double-glazing expression firmly in place, her eyes on a level with the center button of a Mediterranean-blue Paul Smith shirt. Her gaze shifted sharply upward, registering dark, curly chest hair, a strong brown neck, and an even more deeply tanned face with so many quirky, intriguing features that she couldn’t take them all in at once. Very dark, untidily curly hair, amused dark-blue eyes, and a wry, lopsided smile were most immediately noticeable, but as he stood there, towering in the doorway and saying nothing for a second or two, she observed too that he had one crooked incisor, laughter lines so deep they were almost bags, and an indentation that could have been a scar or a dimple high up on his left cheek.
“I’m really not a pervert,” he said at last, “but when you told me not to phone again, I had no way of letting you know that. So I thought I’d call around in person, seeing that I was more or less in the neighborhood.”
“Oh,” said Camilla, stunned.
“Do you think you might allow me a second chance to explain?”
Still stunned, she nodded. Leaning toward her, his left hand propping up the stonework beside the front door, he reached with the other for Camilla’s right hand—which was hanging limply at her side—and solemnly shook it.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance. Matt Lewis.”
“The golfer,” said Camilla, who hadn’t been married to Jack and his sixteen handicap for ten years without picking up some knowledge of the game.
He nodded. “And I do still need a woman. May I come in?”
“Of course,” said Camilla hastily, pulling herself together and wondering where on earth she should put him. The living room carpet was awash with Zoë’s dress patterns and half-cutout material, as far as she could remember the kitchen was also a mess, and the spare bedroom that she and Zoë had converted into an office still looked far too much like a bedroom to consider inviting a stranger inside it. Particularly a stranger as obviously virile and attractive as Matt Lewis.
“You’ll have to watch out for pins,” she told him with a shrug, leading the way toward the living room. “Almost all our business is conducted over the phone, so we don’t have a proper office, I’m afraid. Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Lewis? Or coffee?”
“Tea’s fine.” He stood back, admiring the smooth twin curves of Camilla’s shoulder blades as she bent to retrieve the crackling tissue-paper patterns and bright-scarlet satiny material strewn over the floor. As she moved, one of the thin straps of her amethyst silk t
op slipped from her beautifully rounded shoulder, and he glimpsed the even more tantalizing curve of her breast. He smiled at the speed with which she pulled the strap up again, rosy color touching her cheeks. Throwing the heap of paper and material behind a chair, she came toward him and this time held out her hand.
“I’m Camilla Stewart, Zoë Sheridan’s business partner. Sorry I was a bit abrupt on the phone, but—”
“I have a way with words,” he supplied, his blue eyes betraying hidden laughter. “Well, I can tell you, Miss Stewart, it isn’t that often I get the phone slammed down on me. I daresay it taught me a lesson. But I asked one of the receptionists at the hotel to give me the name of a modeling agency, and she told me that Sheridan’s was the very best in London, so I thought you were probably worth pursuing.”
“It’s Mrs. Stewart,” said Camilla automatically. Surprise and delight shone in her eyes. “The hotel receptionist really said that?”
“Well,” admitted Matt, “it did just happen to turn out that her sister’s boyfriend’s cousin’s wife is one of your models, so maybe she was biased.”
“Oh.” She looked momentarily downcast, then said, “But we’re the best new agency, anyway. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make some tea.”
Matt glanced at his watch. “It’s almost lunchtime; why don’t we go have something to eat instead? We golfers have to keep our strength up, and maybe by buying you lunch I can make up for my earlier faux pas.”
“Oh, that would have been lovely,” said Camilla with genuine regret, biting her lower lip and looking so adorable that Matt felt a sudden desperate longing to put his arms around her. “But I really can’t—I have a thousand things to do, and Zoë won’t be back for hours. I’m sorry,” she said, her smile only increasing his determination. “But if you’re absolutely starving, I could make you some peanut butter sandwiches. Sit down,” she urged again, turning away and heading toward the kitchen.
The sight of those irresistible shoulder blades was simply too much for Matt Lewis. “No,” he said, deadpan. “I certainly will not.”
* * *
The Red Rose in Covent Garden was dark, dramatic, and decadent, and Matt almost died. To her amazement, Camilla realized that he was genuinely embarrassed by the provocative mirrored ceiling, crimson damask drapes, and walls hung with distinctly erotic paintings.
“We can’t stay here,” he protested. “It looks like a whorehouse!”
Camilla smiled and stood her ground, resisting Matt’s attempts to move her out, amused and touched by his obvious discomfort. She still didn’t have the faintest idea what she was doing, dropping everything and dashing out to have lunch with a tall, persistent stranger, but now that she was here, she wasn’t going to leave.
“They have a very pretty walled garden behind the restaurant—we can sit outside and eat. They do wonderful food here.”
“Strange place,” murmured Matt, his dark eyebrows still fixed with doubt. “I had the idea that a restaurant called The Red Rose would be kind of cozy and Shakespearian, you know?”
“Well, you were right the first time when you said it looked like a whorehouse. It was going to be called The Brothel, but there were complaints from outraged residents, so they changed it before the police closed them down and arrested all the waitresses for soliciting.” Explaining all this to Matt, and realizing that he had been more taken aback by the restaurant’s interior than she had on her first visit here two months ago, made Camilla feel terrifically worldly—something she was still unfamiliar with. And to feel worldly in the company of Matt Lewis, this overwhelming American with the curly dark hair and big shoulders, was surely even more incredible. Whoever would think, looking at her now, that this impromptu lunch date—forced upon her against her better judgment—was the first social occasion she had experienced for almost three months?
Although it was mid-September, the weather was still incredibly good. The Indian summer predicted by the meteorologists had actually materialized, and in the sheltered high-walled garden of The Brothel—for it was also still known by its original name—the temperature was up in the high seventies, golden sunlight bathing the terracotta-and-bleached-cream flagstones and the tubs of bright flowers dotted between the tables.
Reminded of al fresco lunches in Greece with Jack, when she had sweltered in voluminous blouses and long skirts, afraid to reveal her pale bulk to the world, Camilla slipped off her pink-and-white blazer and welcomed the sun’s warmth upon her bare, lightly tanned shoulders.
“A year ago, I couldn’t have sat here like this,” she confided, leaning forward with her elbows on the table and touching her upper arms. “I was a bit overweight—I thought I was grotesquely fat—and I didn’t feel good about myself. Sometimes I forget for a few minutes and still think that way.”
Her candidness—how many women, after all, would admit to such a thing?—charmed Matt completely.
When their drinks had been served and the meal ordered, Camilla reached into the vast haversack she had brought with her and drew out two photograph albums, clearing a place for them on the table.
“You want to show me your family snaps?” said Matt, sitting back in his chair and looking alarmed. “If you’re planning to show me pictures of your devoted husband…”
Camilla smiled. “I’m divorced. Would I be sitting here with you now if I were married, Mr. Lewis?” she added playfully.
His tone altered, became serious. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t. It is only a business lunch, after all. Isn’t it?”
Two spots of color appeared in Camilla’s cheeks. “Oh, yes…of course it is. How stupid of me…” She faltered, covered in confusion, and Matt burst out laughing. Her innocence was absolutely enchanting. No wonder he found himself so strongly attracted to her, when all he ever seemed to meet these days were all-knowing, highly lacquered, sharply calculating women who never missed a trick.
“You’re teasing me,” Camilla reproached him, sagging with relief.
He tapped her left hand, bare of rings, with his fork. “I knew you weren’t married.”
“I might have been one of those women who don’t wear a wedding ring,” she countered, pretending to be affronted, and the expression in Matt’s eyes sent a shiver down her legs.
“Ah,” he said with slow deliberation, “but you’re not. I’ve figured that much out already.”
To cover the awkward moment that followed, during which she couldn’t think of a single thing to say, Camilla busied herself opening the photograph albums and pushing them across the tablecloth toward Matt. Business, this is a business lunch, she told herself, knowing that it really wasn’t. Matt Lewis was looking at her in a very unbusinesslike way indeed.
“Take a look at these. Each of our models has a complete portfolio, of course, but it’ll be quicker and easier if you look through the albums and choose three or four to narrow it down. Now, Katy, Eloise, and Anne are already booked; Marcie wouldn’t be able to work tomorrow because she has to take her daughter to the dentist; and Linda”—she turned to the appropriate pages and pointed—“has got tonsillitis, but all the others are available, so just take your time and see who you think would be most suitable. I can phone them as soon as you decide and confirm the booking straightaway.”
“Our food’s arriving. I’ll have a look at them afterward,” said Matt gravely, having made up his own mind at least an hour ago, but realizing that Camilla might need a little more time in which to get used to him. “That lobster looks amazing. Do you know, I asked the hotel receptionist to recommend a good restaurant. When we first walked in here, I thought of clubbing her to death with my nine iron, but it’s thanks to her that I’m sitting here now with this lobster, and with you. I may recommend that she get a raise instead.”
“Ask the waiter if he knows her,” said Camilla, spearing a plump Mediterranean prawn with her fork and rolling it slowly through the creamy,
garlicky mayonnaise with which it was served. “He’ll probably tell you that he’s her boyfriend’s sister’s cousin’s son.”
Matt watched her while she ate, scarcely able to concentrate at all upon his own meal. By asking her questions about the agency, he was able to sit and listen to her, and to realize with pleasure and relief that his first instincts had been correct: she was perfect.
The quality she possessed, and that he found so entirely irresistible, he decided, was that of innocence. She was simply unaware that she was a beautiful, sexually very attractive woman. She had absolutely no idea.
And that was so rare these days. Matt had glanced briefly at the photographs in the album, pretending interest while all his thoughts had been absorbed in listening to her low-pitched, slightly hesitant voice, and while he recognized that maybe the models were a fraction more physically perfect…more classically beautiful…he had known that Camilla was the one he wanted. These beautiful women, apart from the fact that they earned their living by their looks, were conscious of their beauty anyway. Some, he had discovered over the years, were aware of it only most of the time; others, constantly. Each movement, each gesture was geared to that fact, each thought and word dictated by it.
Camilla, on the other hand, with her shy, self-deprecating sense of humor and that guileless smile, coupled with her aura of beauty, had hit him like a bolt out of the blue. She was unique, as far as he was concerned, and he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything else throughout the course of his entire charmed life.
The sudden appalling thought that she might not want him in return sent an icy shiver of panic down Matt’s spine, made him realize that he could not afford to waste another second. He had to be reassured that Camilla at least liked him. That would be enough to keep him going throughout the rest of the meal…
“The women in that album,” he said abruptly, nodding his dark head toward it as if it were a coiled snake. “I don’t want any of them. None.”