by Jill Mansell
“She called me a pig,” he concluded. “I told her that if I could forgive you for wrecking my suit last week, you could forgive me for speaking my mind.”
“Ah,” said Tessa warily, “but have you changed your mind at all, or am I still a lying, cheating, gold-digging tart?”
Max drained his own glass, strode into the kitchen, and switched off the oven. “You could well be, but I’m prepared to admit that since I don’t know you I shouldn’t have made those kind of remarks. So, for now I’ll hold fire. How’s that?”
“You’re still a pig,” Tessa told him, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “But I can cope with that. OK, let’s go.”
• • •
“Merry Christmas,” said Ross, wondering whether he dared give Tessa a kiss. He wasn’t accustomed to feeling like a nervous teenager on a first date—indeed, he had rampaged through his teens with careless abandon—but seeing Tessa enter the hotel with Max had done strange things to him. And now here she was, in a simple scarlet wool sweater and a matching short skirt, and her dark-stockinged legs were just as spectacular as he remembered.
He hesitated, then gestured toward the scarlet bow with which her shining hair was fastened into a topknot. “Very festive. You look…wonderful.”
“I look hungry,” said Tessa, who wasn’t comfortable receiving compliments. “My lunch is in the oven back at the apartment. Any chance of a leftover drumstick?”
Ross had already organized that. As he led her through to the deserted restaurant she saw that only one table, in the very center of the room, was set. Crimson and white roses were artfully arranged in silver vases. Half a dozen fat candles cast their amber glow over the dazzlingly white linen tablecloth, enhancing the glitter of silver cutlery and elegant crystal glasses. A frosted ice bucket held yet another unopened bottle of champagne.
The table was set for two. After helping Tessa into her seat, Ross sat down in the chair facing her.
“You weren’t expecting me to turn up then,” she said with a trace of irony.
“I hoped you would. I would have come and fetched you myself, but you might have refused. It was up to Max to make the first move and apologize.” He glimpsed the expression in her green eyes and added sharply, “He did apologize, of course?”
“In his own way.” Tessa, inhaling the scent of the roses, reminded herself that Ross’s irresistible charm was the exact reason she wasn’t going to allow herself to become involved with him. Falling prey to that charm, those stunning good looks, and that breathtaking body would only lead to tears, maybe not before bedtime, but undoubtedly in the only-too-foreseeable near future.
Complications like that, she had decided, were just what she didn’t need.
Ross didn’t help matters by leaning back in his chair, fixing her with a seductive smile, and saying, “So, here we are. Our very first Christmas together. Now aren’t you glad you came?”
His glittering dark-brown eyes were mesmerizing. He was doing it again, thought Tessa: deliberately trying to seduce her. She smiled back at him.
“I don’t know yet,” she replied slowly, picking up her fork and tracing figures of eight on the linen tablecloth. “It rather depends on the food.”
Chapter 7
By midevening, the ballroom was packed with Christmas revelers in various stages of abandon.
Antonia, her black-stockinged legs carefully crossed so that her split-to-the-thigh black-and-bronze dress fell open to reveal as much leg as possible, smoked a rare cigarette and watched the proceedings at the top table with an expression of detached amusement.
Inwardly, she was far from amused. Curiosity mingled with a distinct sensation of unease. So accustomed to getting her own way that she could scarcely remember what failure felt like, she realized via some inexplicable sixth sense that she was now facing a real threat. The perfect, effortless order of her life was in danger of falling apart.
And no matter how carefully she scrutinized the girl with whom Ross was sitting, she couldn’t for the life of her understand why.
OK, she thought, trying again. She’s pretty. But then so are a thousand other girls, and they at least made the best of themselves. This one wasn’t even wearing any makeup. Her tousled blond hair, Antonia judged with an expert’s eye, hadn’t been within screaming distance of a hairdresser for months. The scarlet angora outfit was simple but bearable, although scarcely appropriate to an evening such as this. And the flat black leather pumps, Antonia decided, were frankly passé. Along with every other Vogue devotee, Antonia had gotten rid of all her own similarly styled shoes a year ago, chucking them into a box and giving them to her daily woman to cart down to Oxfam. This girl obviously didn’t have a clue as far as current styles were concerned.
And yet…and yet here was Ross, looking as if he were constantly having to force himself not to touch this underdressed, unfashionable girl. It wasn’t the Ross Antonia knew, so laid back that he was practically horizontal and barely bothering to conceal his amusement when women made fools of themselves in their efforts to gain his attention.
This time, however, he was the one who was interested. Antonia would almost have called it besotted. And with a gut-wrenching spasm of jealousy, she realized that the threat to her own happiness was even deeper than she had first imagined.
Sipping her vodka and tonic and listening to the rattle of the ice cubes as her hand shook with a mixture of fear and fury, Antonia decided that something would most definitely have to be done. She and Ross had the perfect arrangement: he didn’t mind the fact that she had a husband, and she didn’t concern herself with the endless river of women with which he amused himself…as long as that was all it was. Amusement.
The trouble was, she had always felt she knew Ross well enough to be confident that his way of life wouldn’t change. She simply hadn’t allowed for the possibility that one day he might fall in love.
That was the great threat. And when Antonia was threatened, she retaliated.
• • •
Thankfully Ross’s mood had undergone a dramatic improvement since Tessa’s arrival, and as a result he had put away his whip. Holly, allowed to join in the fun as long as she kept an ear out for the phone in reception, was having a whale of a time flirting outrageously with a French film producer whose soulful brown eyes could have melted her ice any time if only she wasn’t so madly in love with Max. She was only encouraging him in the hope that Max might notice and be suddenly overcome by a wave of Heathcliffian jealousy and sweep her into his arms. So far all he had managed was a wink and a grin as he danced past her table with Mrs. Ellis, the slender, enigmatic divorcée from room twelve, in his arms, but at least it was a start. Only this afternoon she’d called him a pig. A man had his pride, after all.
Holly smiled at the waiflike new waitress—whose name was Grace—and helped herself to a canapé from the tray Grace was carrying somewhat inexpertly in both hands as she steered her way between the tables. At that moment she noticed for the first time the sinuous figure of Antonia Seymour-Smith rising from her seat at the far end of the room. Shit, thought Holly, glancing anxiously across at Tessa and Ross. She hadn’t expected Antonia to be here tonight. Uncomfortably, she recognized the irony of the fact that, although she was incapable of keeping secrets, she hadn’t yet found the right moment to tell Tessa about Antonia’s only semisecret involvement with Ross. By some miracle her husband appeared to be unaware of the situation, but it was otherwise common knowledge that the two of them had been conducting a long-running, not terribly discreet, affair.
The French producer was murmuring something Gallic and seductive in the direction of her cleavage, but Holly was no longer listening. The waitress, Grace, was standing motionless beside her, and they were both gazing in the same direction. As Antonia made her way across the crowded room, her own eyes fixed unwaveringly upon Ross and Tessa, Holly’s heart sank. She didn’t know what Antonia
was planning, but she knew she wasn’t going to like it one little bit.
• • •
Having earlier made the mistake of doodling a caricature of the Irish racehorse trainer on the back of a piece of Christmas wrapping paper, Tessa now found herself besieged by requests for lightning sketches of other guests.
“Sign your name clearly,” Ross instructed her as she concentrated upon capturing the roly-poly—but not too roly-poly—likeness of T. J. Henderson, a second-generation Texan oil baron visiting the UK with his dim, but incredibly over-endowed, nineteen-year-old daughter. “And charge them a fortune, otherwise they won’t appreciate it.”
Tessa smiled and shook her head. These two-minute sketches were for fun, not for profit. T. J. Henderson roared with laughter and slapped his fat knee.
“Make me look real pretty, hon, and all you have to do is name your price. I’ll pay it!”
“Good heavens,” protested Antonia, appearing quite suddenly at Tessa’s side. “You make her sound like some kind of prostitute.”
Ross’s eyes narrowed. He and Antonia had an unspoken understanding, and so far she had never let him down. Normally she observed from a distance and teased him afterward. Trust her to choose tonight of all nights—and Tessa of all the women she had ever seen him with—to stick her oar in. He watched with mounting annoyance as she placed her bronze-tipped fingers upon Tessa’s shoulder.
“Antonia,” he said, partly as a means of introduction, partly warning her not to misbehave. “This is Tessa Duvall. She’s going to be selling her paintings through the hotel.”
“She must be very talented,” remarked Antonia, smiling at T. J. Henderson in such a way that only Ross caught the double entendre.
“Where’s Richard?” he demanded, wishing fervently that he could tell Antonia to take a hike.
She switched her smile in his direction, and he saw the icy determination in her dark-blue eyes. “Oh, he’s here, in the other bar. Christmas Day or no Christmas Day, he’s managed to find someone to talk business with. Why, at this very moment I imagine he’s discussing something riveting like personal allowances or the fluctuation of the Deutschmark. Which is why,” she continued smoothly, meeting the annoyance in his eyes with a careless shrug, “I preferred to join your party. And who could blame me?”
In the time it had taken Antonia to demonstrate her boredom with her husband, Tessa had both sized up the situation and finished the sketch. This sleek blond with the expensive haircut and a body honed by exercise was one of Ross’s famous line of exes. With detached amusement and admirable presence of mind, she signed her name to the caricature with a clear, bold hand and said, “This one’s on me. Thank goodness I’m not a prostitute—I’d be bankrupt within a week.”
“Don’t say that.” Antonia slid into the chair next to her. “You’re obviously very gifted. Just make sure old Ross here doesn’t take advantage.”
Ross wasn’t used to feeling helpless. Glancing around, he glimpsed Holly, looking equally apprehensive, at the far end of the ballroom.
“He won’t,” said Tessa, smiling at Antonia.
“He might,” replied Antonia, knowing that she shouldn’t say it, but out of sheer desperation going ahead anyway. “Ross thrives on taking advantage. Why, he did it to me only last night. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, of course, only it scarcely seems fair on you not to know how he behaves when one’s back is turned…”
• • •
“She’s history,” declared Holly, the light of battle in her eyes. “She’s a complete tart, and you mustn’t let her get to you. If you do, you’re crazy.”
“I’m not crazy,” Tessa informed her from the depths of the backseat of Max’s car. “But I do have a few remaining scruples. If anyone’s a tart, it’s Ross Monahan. And it just goes to show,” she went on, her voice even, “that my decision not to have any more to do with him was the right one all along.”
Max, pulling up outside Tessa’s cottage, was experiencing an uncomfortable conflict of emotions. He hadn’t yet made up his mind about Tessa, but he had to admit that she had handled tonight’s awkwardness with admirable dignity. Until now he had regarded Antonia with good-natured disdain, understanding the situation and disapproving of it, but at the same time deriving some satisfaction from knowing that at least their affair was in the long run meaningless.
“I’m sorry about tonight,” he said, wrenching on the hand brake. Tessa was out of the car in less than two seconds.
“Don’t be,” she retaliated shortly. “I’m just pleased that someone had the decency to put me in the picture. Even if it did have to be Antonia Seymour-Smith.”
“It’s what he’s like.” Max gestured despair with upturned palms. “I thought you realized that.”
“I did,” replied Tessa through the open window. “But he exceeded even my sordid expectations. Thanks for the lift home.”
• • •
“Would you like to come in for coffee?” asked Holly when they finally reached her apartment. “We have turkey if you feel like it,” she added out of sheer desperation. This was the very first time she and Max had been together away from the hotel, and she wanted to make the most of the opportunity.
“Maybe some other time.” Max was scarcely listening, functioning on automatic pilot. Holly was an efficient receptionist, but in other respects she interested him about as much as botulism.
Uppermost in his mind at the moment was a slowly forming plan to see Francine Lalonde again. Since he couldn’t get her out of his mind, he had decided to take positive action instead. The trick, of course, was to disguise the fact that it was a plan. If she thought for one second that he was chasing after her like some stage-struck fan, it wouldn’t work at all.
“Oh, but you must,” Holly blurted out now. “You have time for a quick drink, surely!”
“I’m driving. Look, I really should—”
“Of course you are! I have fresh orange juice, though. You could have that, with some cold turkey and walnut stuffing…”
“Holly, no.” The time had come to be firm. “I have to get back. We’re very grateful to you for working so hard today.” He leaned toward her and for a heart-stopping moment Holly thought he was going to kiss her. But it didn’t happen, and Max opened the passenger door instead.
“No problem. It was my pleasure,” she told him with a brave smile. To herself she added, “Well, it could have been.”
• • •
It was almost midnight by the time Grace arrived home. The living room light was still on, which meant that her mother was waiting up for her, no doubt engrossed in some late-night film and steadily demolishing the box of Russell Stover that Grace had given her that morning.
Reversing her mother’s ancient Fiat—rusty but reliable—into the only available parking space, Grace realized how much she was looking forward to telling her about her day. Mattie’s insatiable curiosity always used to drive her wild; by nature, a quiet girl who kept her thoughts to herself, it had seemed like an unpleasant intrusion of privacy, but in the past month, since taking the waitressing job at The Grange, Grace was now only too happy to talk about it. Indeed, it was practically a compulsion. During the last couple of years at school she had been irritated beyond belief by the girls who constantly rabbited on about their boyfriends, their every sentence prefaced by “Darren says…” and “Colin thinks…” Now, however, she understood their one-track minds and their need to talk about the most important person in their lives. Now that she too had fallen in love, she understood completely. Writing pages of details in her diary was fine in its own way, but the need to speak that magical name aloud was irresistible…
Mattie Jameson was indeed watching television, an old black-and-white Bing Crosby film that she must have seen a dozen times before but enjoyed all the more for knowing that it had a happy ending. Life was too short, she always declared, to waste w
atching miserable films. She had no patience at all with Ingmar Bergman.
Comfortably ensconced before the fire, wrapped up in her favorite pink-and-white dressing gown and with her light brown hair waving around her face, she looked younger than her forty years. Her face softened, and she broke into a welcoming smile as Grace moved toward her. Putting down her cup of milky coffee, she held out her arms for their customary hug. She smelled deliciously of the magnolia soap and bubble bath that had been another of Grace’s presents to her.
“You’re late. How was work?”
“Oh, fine.” Grace kissed her mother’s soft cheek. “Busy, of course.”
“Hotels always are at this time of year. Can’t understand for the life of me why some people should want to spend their Christmases in a hotel instead of their own homes, but there you are…”
“Probably so that they don’t have to do all the hard work themselves.” Grace slipped out of her coat, helped herself to a satsuma from the fruit bowl, and sat down at her mother’s feet, propping her back against the armchair so that she could see the television and talk without having to engage in actual eye contact.
Mattie’s shrewd gray eyes missed nothing, and Grace found conversation easier when she wasn’t being subjected to their silent interrogation. She didn’t want to give herself away completely.
“Have one of these.” Mattie handed her the box of chocolates, two-thirds empty. After years of halfheartedly attempting to diet, she had finally come to terms with the fact that size ten dresses and self-denial weren’t for her. Now, her figure comfortably rounded, she ate what she liked and enjoyed every moment of it. “So. Who was there today, anyone exciting?”
“That Texan oil baron gave me a five-pound tip. The French film director I told you about tried to pinch my bottom,” recounted Grace, gazing dreamily into space. “I was pouring brandy sauce at the time, and half of it ended up in his wineglass. When I told Ross he said I shouldn’t worry about it, that all Frenchmen suffered from MTF and that next time I should pour the sauce over his head.”