Hungry Like de Wolfe

by Anna Markland

  The waiter wheeled out the white leather chair that would look more at home in an office, flicked the napkin open with a snap and laid it across his lap.

  It gave him a momentary opportunity to sneak a peek under the table-for-two, pleased to see she wore a skirt, not pants.

  “Thanks for taking time to meet me,” he said, glad he’d made the decision to ask her out.

  She gripped the laminated menu. “No problem. It’s not far from my office.”

  Her uneasiness puzzled him. Maybe she was married, though she didn’t strike him as a woman who would agree to a date if she was.

  He scanned the decor. “Interesting mix of styles, industrial and elegant.”

  She nodded. “Lots of windows.”

  “Something smells delicious,” he remarked.

  She nodded.

  He steepled his hands, tapped his fingers together and glanced at the menu. “So what do you recommend?”

  She flattened her palms on the white tablecloth and stared at the choices. He fixed his gaze on the bright red nail polish and long, elegant fingers, dismayed to see a wedding ring. But it was on the wrong hand.

  He looked up, disconcerted to discover she was staring at him. “Sorry. I was admiring your ring,” he said lamely, mesmerized by her green eyes.

  She clenched her fist and thumbed the gold band. “Don’t worry. I’m not married.”

  He reached for her hand. “You wouldn’t have come if you were.”

  There was a momentary glint of gratitude in her eyes, but she withdrew her hand quickly. “I can’t recommend anything because I’ve never been here before.”

  This partially explained her nervousness, but why had she led him to believe she frequented the place?

  “I read about it in a magazine,” she admitted. “I don’t eat out much.”

  The hint of regret in her voice gave him pause. Outwardly she seemed like a woman of the world, a sophisticate, but he sensed it was a veneer that hid a sadness. Someone had hurt her. He knew what that was all about.

  The waiter hovered. “Anything to drink?”

  “I’ll have a glass of the Pinot Grigio,” she replied.

  “San Pellegrino sparkling water for me.”

  She frowned.

  “Important meeting at the office this afternoon,” he explained. “Otherwise I’d have the Malbec.”

  Her first relaxed smile poured fuel on the interest already simmering in his balls.

  “Malbec is my favorite wine, but I thought I’d have white. I’ve some serious research to do later.”

  That reminder trimmed his sails. He checked the bill of fare, resenting having to make a mental calculation of what the meal was going to cost. He had the universally accepted Luncheon Vouchers in his wallet, but this wasn’t company business. “Made any progress?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  The waiter reappeared with the beverages, poured the carafe of wine into a wineglass and the sparkling water into a tumbler. “Are you ready to order?”

  Anne raised her eyebrows, reflecting his opinion of the waiter’s lack of cordiality. “I’ll have the asparagus salad with quail eggs and black truffles.”

  “And the pizzetta with tomatoes and roasted peppers for me,” he said, opting for the cheapest item available, though the prices were reasonable considering this was Pimlico.

  “Normally customers take two items,” the unsmiling waiter said patronizingly, scribbling down their order. “They are small servings. Tapas, capisci?”

  Anne shook her head. “I’m planning to leave room for the pistachio tiramisu,” she replied.

  Blaise experienced a sudden irrational desire to spare no expense in an effort to impress this woman. It compounded his resentment at his financial predicament.

  The waiter lifted his chin, retrieved the menus and departed.

  “Not the friendliest,” she said with a grin, raising her glass.

  “I’ll say, and the Italian accent is definitely fake.” He clinked his glass against hers. “Here’s to a productive relationship, Anne Smith.”

  He was disappointed when she looked away and sipped the Pinot without acknowledging his toast.

  Conflicting emotions swirled in Anne’s heart. Simply being here with another man was disloyal to Geoff.

  She clenched her fists in her lap. That was another ridiculous notion. Her husband had volunteered to go to Iraq against her wishes.

  She was more attracted to Blaise de Wolfe than she wanted to be. His grey summer blazer, stylish yet classic at the same time, had drawn the appreciative eye of many of the female diners. Summer slacks emphasized his long legs. The college tie should have looked absurd, yet he carried off the combination of casual and formal seemingly without effort. He was easily the most handsome man in the busy restaurant. Finding him attractive felt wrong but right at the same time. It was perplexing.

  She’d ordered white wine and asparagus, both of which she disliked, then stated her intention to follow with dessert, something she rarely did, especially at lunchtime.

  Her brain had evidently closed down. Yet the man seated across from her was touching off exciting physical sensations she hadn’t felt in years.

  She knew from a quick perusal of Google that he was a successful barrister. Numerous high profile cases were cited. She imagined how dignified he’d look in wig and gown, his deep voice uttering M’Lud with great solemnity. “Do you work in the City, Mr. de Wolfe?” she asked in a voice that came out alarmingly hoarse.

  “Please, it’s Blaise. I’m a barrister. Mostly civil cases. Some constitutional stuff.”

  She gave voice to her suspicions about his background. “You’re an Oxford man…Blaise.”

  He smiled, smoothing down his tie. “Yes. You recognize the tie. Captain of the rowing eight.” He spread his arms wide and puffed out his chest. “Member of the Old Blues and Isis, though you wouldn’t know it to look at me now.”

  Her heart did a strange flip. While it was true he’d probably gained weight, he was still broad-shouldered and well-muscled. The powers that be at Oxford didn’t pick weaklings to captain their prestigious team. They chose leaders—strong men. “You look fit to me,” she murmured into her wineglass, clenching the pulsating muscles between her legs.

  It was getting uncomfortably hot in the restaurant. “Do you not have air conditioning?” she asked the waiter when he reappeared with the food.

  He nodded to the floor-to-ceiling folding glass doors that had been opened to the street to relieve the July heat. “We don’t switch it on when the doors are open,” he replied with a barely concealed smirk and more than a trace of a Cockney accent. “Would you like to move closer to the outside?”

  She shook her head, feeling like a fool, and he departed, no doubt rolling his eyes. This was getting out of hand. Time to get back to business. She sampled a tiny quail’s egg, then said, “I’ve read some of your research.”

  He quickly swallowed the pizza he’d been chewing. “And?”

  His voice sounded casual, but there was too much intensity in his unusual eyes. She was already certain that some of the information was flawed, but didn’t yet know why it mattered so much to him. He didn’t seem the type to care passionately about an anachronism like the Sons of the Conquest. “It’s a rare treat to see hand-drawn family trees instead of computer-generated ones. You were right that your ancestor was meticulous.”

  He dabbed his mouth with the linen napkin, but missed a tiny spot of tomato sauce on his top lip. She had an insane urge to lick it off.

  “But you have concerns,” he said with a frown.

  For a brief moment she was tempted to lie. Anything to wipe away the worry in his eyes. But she had her professional reputation to consider. She stared at the asparagus on her plate, her belly churning. “He relied heavily on some avenues of research that have since been proven unsupportable.”

  The color drained from his face and he stared at her as if she’d told him his best friend had died.

&nbs
p; “I’m not saying your family isn’t descended from a knight who fought at Hastings, I’m simply saying…”

  “That it’s not your area of expertise.”

  Blaise gritted his teeth, cursing himself for a fool when Anne glared back angrily and thrust her fork into the remaining quail’s egg like Saint George slaying the proverbial dragon.

  A man in his profession never blurted out a judgmental statement of that sort. His emotions had got the better of him. The last thing he wanted to do was alienate the first woman he’d been attracted to in years. Plus, he was financially dependent on her goodwill. “I apologise,” he muttered lamely.

  She put down her knife and fork and stared at him. “Not that I have to justify my credentials to you, Mr. de Wolfe, but it happens that the Norman Conquest is my area of expertise. I too am a descendant of a knight who fought at Hastings, the first Earl of Ellesmere, and what’s more I can prove it.”

  Once again his better judgement failed him. “With a name like Smith?” he scoffed.

  She crumpled her napkin and threw it onto the table. “I’ve changed my mind about the tiramisu,” she said, pushing back her wheeled chair. “I trust you’ll get this?”

  She was gone before he could retract his accusation.

  APOLOGIES

  Blaise didn’t wait for the bill. He grudgingly extracted thirty-five pounds from his wallet, figuring that would about cover it, and nodded impatiently to the money on the table when he caught the scowling waiter’s eye. It wouldn’t leave much of a tip after VAT, but what the hell. The pizza had as much texture and taste as cardboard and it was plain Anne hadn’t enjoyed her food.

  He hurried out and looked quickly up and down Gillinghall Street. Chances were she would walk back to her house only five minutes away.

  He strode briskly to Belgrave Road, then took a left onto Eccleston Square, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, but was disappointed that she was nowhere in sight. Maybe she had taken a cab after all.

  Halfway down the street he paused to take stock of the situation, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks. What was he going to say once he caught up with her? Would she even agree to carry on the research after his insult? For some inexplicable reason that no longer seemed to matter.

  Drawn by the sound of rustling leaves in the Square’s private gardens, he gripped the iron railings, feeling like a jailed outlaw in some old western. Discouraged, he looked across at the distant tennis court partly hidden by the London plane trees. A pulse throbbed wildly in his throat when he realized Anne was sitting on a bench a few yards away, staring at a glorious display of bedding out plants, looking lost and alone. An urgent compulsion to comfort her seized him.

  He assumed she must have a key fob for the garden gate, available only to local residents. He had no choice but to ask her to let him in.

  Anne had sought refuge in the locked garden, reasoning it would be better to avoid Blaise if he came in pursuit, but her heart skittered when he called her name. “Anne, let me in. I need to apologise properly.”

  She got up from the bench and went to the gate. “I don’t want to argue,” she told him through the railings.

  “Neither do I,” he replied, “and I’m sorry I was rude. It’s not in my nature.”

  Despite the insult, there was genuine regret in his voice and she believed him. She unlocked the gate and walked back to the bench. He followed and sat beside her. She startled when his leg pressed against hers.

  He took her hand. “What’s wrong?”

  How to tell him the warmth of his solid thigh was the most intimate contact she’d had with a male for years, and it felt wonderful. “No, and I’m sorry too for walking out like that. It was childish. Smith is my married name.”

  He meshed his fingers with hers. The strength in his touch gave her courage to tell the whole story, but even so her voice faltered. “I’m a widow. My husband was a career soldier. He died in Iraq.”

  Those were the facts, but she wasn’t ready to pour out her grief and anger to a man she barely knew.

  He put his arm around her shoulders. “How long ago?”

  The urge to lean into him and accept his comfort was powerful, but she held herself aloof, otherwise she might dissolve into tears. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Three years.”

  “And yet it seems like only yesterday.”

  She knew from the wistful resignation in his voice that he too had suffered a wrenching emotional loss. A sweetheart? A wife?

  “I come here when things get too much,” she whispered. “This garden saved my sanity after Geoff died. I was only a child when it was torn apart by the Great Storm of 1987, but my parents and I helped with the restoration.”

  “I’ve heard of that,” he replied, tightening his grip on her shoulder. “One hundred mile an hour winds, right? We were spared the worst of it out in the country.”

  She gave in and leaned against him, feeling less tense than she’d felt in a long time. “Yes, we lost seven of the plane trees and all the railings were torn out. The machinery brought in to clear some of the debris chewed up the grass. It was devastating.”

  He rested his chin on the top of her head. “You’d never know by looking at it now. It’s a beautiful new world.”

  GUILT

  Anne may have misjudged this unlikely hero. Perhaps he was the knight in shining armor destined to ride to the rescue and carry her off to a beautiful new world of her own. He’d reawakened physical needs and yearnings. Much as she enjoyed delving into the past, she wanted a future, a life. “Would you like to come back to the house for a cup of tea?” she asked. “I guarantee the service is better than at Tazzi’s.”

  “I’d like that,” he replied in a deep voice that echoed in her bones. “We can start afresh.”

  They strolled hand in hand to St. George’s Terrace and she unlocked the front door, feeling like a teenager on her first date.

  “This is a beautiful property,” he said as she ushered him into the hallway. “Are you the bike rider?”

  “Yes, I find it handy for short errands, though I don’t venture out on it at peak times. I’m glad you like the house,” she added truthfully, leading the way up the stairs to the kitchen, deliberately exaggerating the sway of her hips.

  When she and Geoff hosted dinner parties, guests were always awed by the ultra-modern brilliant white decor and stainless steel appliances. She’d forgotten how proud she used to be of the gleaming space. Blaise’s Wow! lifted her spirits and brought back good memories.

  “Have a seat and I’ll put on the kettle.”

  “Counter or kitchen table?” he asked.

  Contentment washed over her. “The table’s fine.”

  After plugging in the electric kettle, she opened the cupboard and dithered over which mugs to use. She had her favorite Royal Doulton, but men didn’t drink out of china. Geoff preferred a plain…

  She gritted her teeth and grabbed two china mugs. Blaise belonged to the landed gentry. Didn’t they all drink tea from the finest china, stirred with a silver spoon? “Milk and sugar?” she asked, trying to slow her breathing.

  “Just milk,” he replied, patting his stomach. “Have to cut down.”

  Waiting for the kettle to boil, she drummed her fingers on the counter, not sure why she resented people like Blaise when she herself had noble ancestors.

  He stood behind her chair and pulled it out when she brought the tea tray, but she hesitated before sitting down.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She clutched the back of the chair. “I know it’s silly, but I haven’t used this table since my husband died.”

  He held out his hand. “I understand, and I’m honored to be your first guest.”

  She might disdain the upper class, but Blaise was obviously a gentleman. She took his hand. His strength became her strength and she sat.

  “I’ll let it steep for a few minutes,” she told him, anxious to fill the silence.

  “I meant it when I said
I understand,” he replied, staring at the checkered tablecloth. “I was engaged a few years ago. After we broke up I avoided restaurants where we’d eaten together, didn’t go to shows at theatres we frequented.” He smiled nervously as she poured his tea. “Her name was Tessa.”

  She got the feeling it was an effort for him to even say the woman’s name. “I take it she ended the relationship?”

  He nodded. “I couldn’t sleep in the bed we shared, not even in the same room. I moved to another bedchamber.” He flashed a wry smile. “It’s not as though De Wolfe Hall is short of them.”

  She propped both elbows on the table and sipped her tea, glad she’d invited him. “I’m imagining a grand mansion with acres and acres of manicured grounds.”

  He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Something had changed. “Enough about me,” he growled. “Tell me about your husband.”

  She curled her hands around the bone china mug hoping its heat would dull the pain of having to put her grief into words.

  It had been on the tip of Blaise’s tongue to disclose why Tessa left him, but he thought better of it. No point in letting Anne know yet that he faced financial challenges. “Take your time,” he assured her as she squirmed in her seat, holding on to the gold-rimmed china mug like a shipwreck survivor clings to a piece of driftwood.

  She stared at some spot on the wall behind him. “While Geoff was away in Iraq on his first tour of duty I was a nervous wreck. He was older than me and a career soldier when I met him. I should have been prepared, but I was so swept up in the excitement of being married to a handsome officer, it never occurred to me he might be sent into a war zone. It was an overwhelming relief when he came home, not only safe, but a decorated hero. Most of our social life revolved around the military and everywhere we went people congratulated him for his bravery. I was very proud and thankful.”

  She sipped her tea and he let her take her time.

  “But he was restless. Something was bothering him. He became moody, flying off the handle at the least thing. Being around him was like walking on eggs. When he refused to discuss it, I stopped asking and spent most of my time on my research. We lived in the same house, but we became strangers.”