Accounting for Love

by Chrissie Loveday

  ‘I was looking out for you but I didn’t see you arrive.’

  ‘I came through a side door. I’m becoming paranoid about this wretched publicity. I can’t stand all these so-called celebrity interest magazines. Making anyone seem like something unusual when all the time, we are just people earning our living. Sensational gutter press. I hate it all.’ Amanda wriggled uncomfortably. Should she just come out with the truth and call it a day? ‘I’m sorry. You’re looking wonderful, sensational in fact. So refreshing to see a beautiful woman who doesn’t try to force her sexuality on every man she meets.’ She sent up a little prayer of gratitude that she hadn’t worn the sexy red dress. ‘Seems every girl I meet has the same message. But I guess that goes with the territory. I can’t tell you how nice it is to have an accidental meeting with someone who doesn’t have an agenda. So, talk to me. I want to know all there is to know about you. Your life. Your family.’

  Amanda was grateful that the low lighting in the wine bar hid her blushes, at least to some extent. It was getting worse and worse with everything he said. Accidental meeting? It had been totally contrived, and she certainly did have an agenda. If she really was one of the more unscrupulous journalists, she would wheedle out all sorts of things to use in her article but she wasn’t. There were times when she actually hated the necessities of her work. What was more, she really liked this man. Who wouldn’t? A truly tall, dark and handsome cliché sitting very close to her so that his knee actually brushed her own, sending pulses of ... well ... whatever it was, it was more than pleasant. She was even fantasising about how it would feel to be held close by him.

  ‘Amanda? Where were you? Am I boring you so much?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was ... well … enjoying looking at you. Sorry, that sounds so corny. But you are a most attractive man. Gosh, should I be saying that? But I think there are several women around here who are incredibly jealous of me.’ She had already noticed the envious looks she was getting and felt very glad to be her.

  ‘I am the lucky one. Perhaps it is I who is the object of such envy. So, ma belle Amanda, where are we going to eat?’

  Feeling as if she were floating on air, she suggested a small bistro a couple of blocks away. It was a balmy summer evening and strolling along the busy streets held a special magic. There were people of all nationalities, and delicious smells came from the many different restaurants they passed.

  ‘I’m starving,’ she murmured. ‘Despite that chocolate muffin we ate earlier.’

  ‘Me too.’ He slipped his arm around her waist, a gesture that was comfortingly possessive. He felt her stiffen slightly and withdrew his arm. ‘I am sorry. Perhaps I’m being too intimate on our first date.’

  ‘No, no. It’s fine. I like it.’ Like it? Understatement of the century. It felt wonderful. She looped her own arm around his waist and smiled up at him. She felt almost dainty and feminine alongside this giant of a man. She could feel his powerful muscles, doubtless the product of many years spent practising. He may not be ranked anywhere in the world of tennis at this time, but he was certainly climbing high in her own personal rankings.

  ‘So, Amanda, ... tell me about yourself. What do you do?’

  ‘Do? Erm ...’ Damn it, she thought, what could she tell him? ‘I, er... sell magazines and such.’

  ‘Really?’ He sounded surprised. ‘I’d have thought you’d have much more of a career than that.’

  ‘It is a career,’ she protested. If it wasn’t for people who sold the magazines, she wouldn’t have a job at all.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sure it’s interesting to meet new people all the time. And I guess you have the chance to read the magazines. You’ll therefore understand my hatred of this sensational publicity. If they can’t get a story, they just make something up.’

  ‘You really do have a complex about this don’t you?’

  He shrugged. ‘You know, if anyone believed everything that’s been written about me, they’d think I have wife in every country and children by the dozen.’

  ‘And you haven’t, of course?’

  ‘How could you ask? I’m never in one place long enough even to begin a relationship, let alone take it as far as marriage. No, I reckon I shall be a bachelor until I give up playing tennis.’

  ‘But surely most of the players get married? They always appear on television with the suitably glamorous wife sitting in the special box, and the infant child gets wheeled in at an appropriate moment.’

  ‘Maybe. But it’s a difficult life and when I settle, I want it to be just that. At the moment I am travelling all the time. Eventually, I shall find someone and maybe have a kid or two. But I’m nowhere near that point in my life.’

  Amanda smiled to hide a slight sense of disappointment. Then she grinned broadly. What on earth was she thinking of? She was having the evening of her life with a gorgeous man. She knew she was the envy of every other woman in the place. Sacha Manon. Rising tennis star. Once he’d left the country again, she might be able to write a really sensational piece for Personal, one that would get Penelope Withenshaw jumping with excitement. After all, they were never likely to meet again, were they? He was speaking again.

  ‘Somehow, you keep turning the subject round to me. I want to know all about you, please. Your home. Family. What you want from life?’

  What questions. Where should she start?

  Chapter Two

  The evening passed in a sort of dream. Sacha was the perfect companion. Charming, complimentary, enthusiastic. Amanda was beginning to see why the gossip columns were so anxious to know about him. He was totally charismatic but with a warmth and friendliness that, in her experience, was most unusual in minor celebrities.

  ‘Amanda, ma cherie Amanda, I have enjoyed our evening so very much. Will you accompany me for dinner again tomorrow? Then I have to leave. I am flying to America the following day to compete in another tournament. I have to practise during the day but I can be free by, say, six-thirty?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ she whispered, almost breathless at the thought of seeing him again and delighted that he wanted to spend more time with her. Her conscience had been pushed well to the back, and she already planned to deny that she had even got close to her assignment. Perhaps there would soon be another player she could catch up with, in order to write her piece.

  ‘That’s great. Shall I see you home?’

  ‘Well, I came by cab so I’ll have to call another. I think you’re staying in the opposite direction so it isn’t practical for you to see me home. Where do you want to meet tomorrow?’

  ‘I’d like to see something of this city of yours, besides the odd restaurant and tennis courts. What do you suggest?’

  ‘Well, depends what sort of thing do you want to see?’

  ‘I’ve never been on this London Eye. How about we begin there?’

  ‘Okay. You’re on. Maybe we could take a river boat or have dinner somewhere near there?’

  ‘Wonderful.’ They ordered two cabs and stood waiting. He pulled her into his wonderfully strong arms and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘Ma cherie. My dear one. I have so enjoyed meeting you and I look forward with great pleasure to tomorrow. I’ll meet you near the ticket office at the Eye tomorrow. Six thirty. Don’t be late.’ She nodded, scarcely able to breathe.

  She waved as her taxi drove away and blew him a kiss. Reality began to set in as she was driven back to her flat. What on earth was she doing fantasising about this man? He was a famous, or nearly famous, sportsman. She was definitely not sporty. She quite enjoyed watching a bit of Wimbledon but that was the extent of her involvement since she had left school. Worst of all, she was exactly the sort of person he claimed to despise ... a journalist looking for personal details. Besides, he was in England for literally a few weeks a year and had the choice of dozens, hundreds possibly, of gorgeous women. How could she ever be anything more than a companion with whom he might share the occasional meal? He’d called her something i
n French that had sounded totally intimate and meaningful, and here she was believing that he had a serious, hidden message for her. Even the sexy way he pronounced her name made her feel very special. What rubbish. She could enjoy his company for one more evening and that was it. Nothing more. Tomorrow she needed to find her excuses for Penelope and look for another subject. There was no way she could write about this star, even if she never saw him again.

  She spent a restless night, smiling at the memory of his final goodnight kiss. She’d had plenty of boyfriends in her time, and plenty of kisses in her life, but this one had seemed somehow special. She’d kissed several of her interview subjects, famous people in the public’s gaze. They were so used to kissing everyone. It meant nothing. But none of them made her feel quite like Sacha had done. She had felt so safe in his arms and adored the feeling of strength that seemed to flow from him.

  She rose early and planned her day. She needed to take a change of clothes into the office and, somehow, she must appear normal and casual in case someone suspected who she was really going out with that evening. If anyone got wind of it, she would be doomed. She would have to confess to Sacha who she really was. Write one of the scandalous pieces so loved by her boss and the public and so hated by Sacha.

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