‘What is it?’ she said involuntarily, going to him.
‘So little blood for so much pain.’
She realised he had been looking at the stained sheet. Her heart turned over. She took his hand. It felt inert in hers. As if he did not want her to touch him. Zoe began to feel alarmed.
‘That’s nothing,’ she said. ‘There’d be more blood from a grazed knee.’
‘I hurt you.’
Zoe’s voice rose. ‘Okay, so I made a fuss. But this is nothing. The burn hurt more than that.’
Jay detached himself. ‘But I didn’t burn you.’
And the day dimmed a little more.
They both made an effort, though. Zoe resumed brushing her hair. Jay shook off his constraint, raised an eyebrow at the way her curls clung to the brush and said, ‘I’ve never seen hair sizzle before.’
‘Curls,’ said Zoe, refusing to acknowledge the constraint between them. ‘The bane of my life. No serious person has curls. I’ll probably have to shave my head before I can embark on a serious career.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ said Jay.
She hoped he would touch her hair then. He didn’t. But at least he watched with apparent fascination as she twined it into a pony tail and clipped it round with a bright turquoise elasticated fastening with a daisy button it.
‘You look about twelve,’ he commented.
Zoe narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I’ve got a degree in chemistry and on-the-job experience of all necessary life skills from plumbing to party-giving. I am not twelve.’
The constraint eased a bit more.
‘Sorry,’ said Jay, amused.
He opened the door of the suite for her.
‘Okay, I happen to have been a little slow in launching my great career,’ Zoe allowed. ‘I have been taking stock of my available options.’
‘I’m sure there are hundreds,’ he said politely.
And a whole new dimension of them since last night. She bit back a grin. ‘Just watch me.’
He touched her hair then, ruffling it as if she were the twelve-year-old he’d mentioned. ‘You’re a tonic, Discovery.’
They went down in the cherub-festooned elevator.
Breakfast was served with maximum pomp in the restaurant.
‘You can’t possibly need that many plates and glasses to eat a croissant,’ said Zoe, torn between amazement and contempt.
‘This is an international hotel,’ Jay told her, entertained. ‘You can have everything from hominy grits to ham and cheese. To say nothing of that pickled fish that the Scandinavians eat. You need a variety of fighting irons to deal with a menu like that.’
‘There is no way I’m eating pickled fish for breakfast,’ announced Zoe, horrified.
‘Relax. It’s not obligatory.’
And nor was the restaurant, apparently. He led her through it to an open air terrace. The tables there had bright gingham cloths instead of stiff white damask, and a marked diminution in the crockery and glassware.
‘You get your own orange juice and buns from that table under the awning,’ Jay told her. ‘They come and take orders for whatever else you want. Coffee, tea, eggs, mixed grill.’
She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘And I suppose you come here regularly, too. What on earth do you do for kicks? You’ve done everything in the world before,’ she complained.
At once he went very still. ‘Not everything.’
At once Zoe recalled his stillness this morning, when she’d found him frowning out at the canal. And later, contemplating her physical hurt.
She could have kicked herself. Damn! Why can’t I learn to keep my mouth shut? Now he’s thinking about last night again.
He obviously hated everything about last night. The day dimmed a lot more.
But then she squared her shoulders. Oh, well, there was nothing she could do about it. Except get back to neutral subjects as fast as she could—and try to avoid putting her foot in it again.
She said lightly, ‘Well, enough to give me some considered vocational advice. What do you think I should do as a career?’
He relaxed visibly. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘If I knew that, I’d be doing it.’
‘Okay, let’s look at it another way. What did you like about university?’