‘Charlie isn’t easily overwhelmed,’ Rachel said drily. ‘But I think slowly is the best way to play this.’
‘That looks marvellous.’ Christophe breathed in the aroma appreciatively as the waiter placed his steaming dessert before him. ‘Are you sure you’re not tempted?’ He rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation of the calorific delight.
Rachel grinned as he attacked the mammoth-sized portion with the enthusiasm of a schoolboy. ‘I imagined we’d be dining somewhere very French,’ she teased. The restaurant he’d brought her to specialised in traditional, unglamorous English cuisine.
‘What could be more glamorous than a steamed suet pudding?’ he asked indignantly, spoon poised halfway to his mouth. ‘I have a weakness for English nursery food; do I have the expression right?’
She nodded. ‘You have, only I imagine a cardiologist might have another name for it.’
‘A little of what is bad for you occasionally can do no harm, Rachel.’
She was in a position to dispute that. A little of Ben had been very bad for her. Her concentration was shot to hell. It was getting hard to disguise the fact that she had no appetite. She had decided, rather harshly, that her face was looking quite gaunt tonight. As for sleep, she’d forgotten what it was to do anything other than toss and turn. It wasn’t going to last, of course, she knew—she reminded herself of this fact a hundred times a day—only it didn’t help.
She was just grateful for her premature return to Albert’s office. Mr Arden apparently no longer had need of her services—or so the curt office memo had informed her. Pity he hadn’t explained this to his father before she’d been subjected to that horrific interview, which got more bizarre and surreal every time she reconstructed it in her mind. She’d seen Ben just once in the distance; there had been no mistaking his broad back or the sound of Sabrina’s high-pitched giggle.
‘Will you have coffee?’ Christophe asked for the third time.
‘Sorry, I was miles away.’ She unfolded her white knuckles from the wine glass and forced herself to smile. She wasn’t about to tell him where she’d been or with whom. She listened as he patiently repeated himself.
‘I do a passable coffee. Would you prefer to go back to my place? It will give you more time with Charlie.’
It was after midnight before she said goodnight to Christophe. She was only halfway up the stairs when the doorbell rang once more. He must have forgotten something, she decided, skipping back down the stairs two at a time.
‘What’s…?’ The smile died dramatically as she recognised the tall figure who loomed out of the darkness. ‘Go away!’ Despite her determined attempts to close the door in Benedict’s face the large size eleven got in the way. A well-muscled thigh followed the foot and she found herself thrust back against an unattractive umbrella stand which stood in the hallway.
‘Don’t bother closing that door—you’re leaving,’ she said grimly.
‘Not until you’ve done a bit of explaining.’
‘You’re the one who should be explaining. What do you think you’re doing barging in here?’
‘I waited until Fauré had left. I thought that was very considerate of me.’ Benedict’s affable expression was somewhat spoilt by the waves of anger emanating from his lean body.
‘You’ve been skulking out there waiting!’ she accused, going cold all over at the thought. ‘Spying on me!’ she squeaked in outrage.
’I know.’
Whatever he knew it didn’t seem to be affording him much pleasure. In fact the pulse that visibly throbbed in his forehead looked about ready to pop. Explosive described fairly accurately his state of mind at the moment.
‘I’m happy for you. At least I would be if I had the faintest idea what you were talking about.’ She picked up the assorted umbrellas and placed them back in the Victorian stand.
Hands thrust deep in his jeans pockets, he looked down at her with open contempt. ‘And I don’t suppose you went to see my father either?’ he said in a voice calculated to wither hardier blooms than Rachel.
She turned to face him, a red brolly still clutched in her bloodless grip.
‘Did you think he wouldn’t tell me?’ Benedict noticed she’d gone bluish around the lips. The floor was hard, unyielding mosaic tile; he’d have to move fast if she fainted.
‘Actually I didn’t think he would,’ she confessed eventually. Her head was spinning. Stuart Arden wasn’t the sort of man who did anything unless he thought he could get something out of it. For the life of her she couldn’t imagine what advantage he imagined this confession would give him.