They sat down at a table for four by a window. Mrs. Dewhurst sat cater cornered to Pamela, opting for an aisle seat while Pamela chose the window. Mrs. Dewhurst then picked up a menu and handed it to her, sensed her obvious discomfort, and took the menu back.
'I'll order,' she said, smiling to put Pamela at ease. 'You look as though you could manage the Full British Breakfast.'
Pamela tried to relax and smile in turn, but found her eyes drawn to the other people in the restaurant, most of whom were women. They looked worlds apart from the type of people she could relate to, self-involved and interested in matters that were incomprehensible to an ignorant girl like Pamela who had lived on the streets.
As her eyes strayed around the restaurant, a sudden presence to her left tore her attention to itself, leaving her feeling as though the very earth had tilted, or that her heart had stopped beating. Her entire being seemed to scream It's him! She didn't know who he was, but it was definitely him, the man from her old dream. But no, that was ridiculous! She didn't even know what the man in her dream looked like. All she had to go on were vague generalities. There was nothing vague or general about the man before her, who now leaned over and talking very quietly with Mrs. Dewhurst. He was dressed in a dove-grey suit, immaculately tailored, and something of the way he leaned over emphasised the broadness of his shoulders and depth of his chest, the hard muscles of his upper body and arms. His hair was short and wavy, and oh, so black, a true blue-black, such as Pamela had rarely seen before. She had caught the briefest glimpse of his eyes. They were grey eyes, strong, demanding, unyielding . . . a tremor of fear stirred in her vitals . . . they were eyes to be feared if kindled to anger. At one point he looked up and Pamela felt a lance of fear pass right through her as his gaze took her in, seemingly at a glance. Raising an eyebrow, in what she would find would for him be a characteristic gesture, his gaze and expression neutral, he extended his hand, which was very large, warm, strong and . . . when she reached out and placed her own small hand in his, she almost snatched it back in sudden fear and confusion.
'Miss Dee. How do you do?' His voice was low-pitched, self-assured, altogether a man's voice, the sort of man who was master of his own affairs.
'I . . . hi,' she stammered.