A Woman Accused

‘And I’m going to smell like a bottle of Scotch for the rest of the afternoon.’

Olivia’s mouth narrowed. ‘Next time,’ she snapped, ‘stick to club soda. If nothing else, it might improve your disposition.’

His head came up. ‘Really?’ he said, and for the first time he looked straight at her.

‘Really,’ she started to say in a frigid tone, but the word stuck in her throat. The anger was draining from his face, leaving in its place a slow, easy smile. Olivia caught her breath. My God, she thought foolishly, what a handsome man.

‘Hell,’ he said pleasantly, ‘accidents happen.’

She swallowed. ‘Yes. I—I guess they do.’

Not just handsome. Wealthy. She knew the type too well. She could see it in the expensively tailored suit, hear it in the way he spoke.

She flushed as she realised how he was looking at her, his gaze moving slowly, lingering on the quick rise and fall of her breasts. His smile tilted.

‘Here.’ The hand that held the handkerchief lifted towards her bosom. ‘Let me—’

‘No.’ Olivia stepped back quickly. ‘I’ll take care of it,’ she said coldly.

‘Madame? Sir? Is there a problem?’

She spun around. The head waiter was standing beside them, a worried frown on his face.

The man smiled. ‘No problem at all.’

The head waiter’s glance went from Olivia’s jacket to the man’s tie. ‘May I get either of you something? A clean cloth, perhaps, or—?’

‘A table,’ the man said.

He took Olivia’s elbow, his fingers curling around it very lightly, far too lightly for her to feel as if his touch had scorched her skin, but that was exactly how she felt. She pulled away sharply.

‘I’m meeting someone,’ she said to the head waiter.

He laughed softly. ‘So was I. But it’s not too late to change our plans, is it?’

‘In fact,’ she said, ignoring him, ‘she might be here already. Her name is—’

‘It’s your name I’m interested in,’ the man murmured. ‘If you won’t have lunch with me, at least give me your name and phone number.’

The head waiter cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps I should return in a few minutes.’

‘No.’ Olivia shook her head. ‘No, please. I’d like to be shown to my table, whether my friend is here or not.’

‘Certainly, madame.’

‘Say goodbye, at least,’ the amused masculine voice beside her whispered as she marched off after the head waiter, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t take an easy breath, either, not until they’d safely left the bar behind.

‘The reservation is in the name of Ria Bascomb,’ she said.

The head waiter bowed his head. ‘Of course. Just follow me, please.’

Olivia sighed. Ria was here already, then. Well, that figured. The day was rapidly going downhill. Just look at how badly she’d dealt with what had been, after all, nothing but an innocent flirtation. But the stranger had dredged up memories with his easy assumption that she’d find him irresistible.

‘Here you are, madame.’

‘Thank you. I...’ Olivia blinked. There was someone in the booth waiting for her, all right, but it wasn’t Ria. It was, instead, a white-haired man with a handsome, ruddy face who was already smiling and rising to his feet.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, turning to the head waiter. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.’

The white-haired man smiled and waved his hand in dismissal. ‘That’s all right, Geoffrey. Miss Harris is at the right table.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said slowly, ‘but I don’t...’ Her voice trailed away. She’d been going to say she didn’t know this man, but she did. His face was familiar, as was his voice. Where had she seen him before?

‘Charles Wright,’ he said, as if he’d read her thoughts. ‘We met several months ago. I came into the shop where you work to enquire about draperies for my apartment.’

‘And you ended up having us redecorate the entire flat.’ Olivia smiled and took the hand he held out to her. ‘Of course, Mr Wright. Forgive me for not recognising you.’

‘That’s quite all right, Miss Harris.’ Wright’s smile grew warmer. ‘I wouldn’t expect such a beautiful young woman to remember the name and face of an old fogey like me.’

‘Oh, but you’re not an old fogey,’ Olivia said automatically. ‘I just—well, it’s the lighting in here. And then...’ She frowned as she withdrew her hand from his. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an error, Mr Wright. I’m meeting a friend for lunch—’

‘Ria Bascomb.’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘Yes. Yes, that’s right. But how did you know?’

‘Ria didn’t tell you that she’d asked me to join you?’ Wright sighed. ‘Ah, well, she said she was going to keep it a secret till the last, and I see that she did.’

Olivia’s frown deepened. ‘Do you and Ria know each other?’

She had, apparently, made a marvellous joke. Wright laughed with delight.

‘You might say that. In fact, we met at the shop where you work. I was in to approve the final sketches for my pied à terre, and Ria dropped by to say hello. You introduced us.’

‘Did I?’ Olivia smiled tentatively. ‘Yes, now that you mention it, I think I do remember. But that still doesn’t explain—’

‘Please, Miss Harris, won’t you sit down and have something to drink? Ria will be here soon, I assure you.’

Olivia hesitated for a few seconds, and then she shrugged her shoulders and slipped on to the cushioned seat opposite Wright while her brain whirred and tried to make sense out of what was happening. Alice at the Tea Party, she thought, and she cleared her throat.

‘I must admit,’ she said lightly, ‘I’m not sorry she’s not here yet. I’m always the one who’s late, and I promised her I’d be on time today.’ There was a silence, and she cleared her throat again. ‘Well. I hope you’re enjoying your flat, Mr Wright.’

‘Charles.’ His mouth curled up in a smile. ‘Surely the woman who decorated my flat so beautifully knows me well enough to call me by my given name.’

Olivia gave him a little smile. ‘Has it all worked out, then? As I recall, you were concerned that the colour we used in your living-room might become boring.’

Wright laughed. ‘Actually, I wasn’t in it often enough to notice. No, I’m just teasing you.’ He smiled as he signalled the waiter. ‘Everyone complimented me on the décor. We told them all it was done by the charming Miss Olivia Harris.’

Olivia flushed. ‘Thank you, but I suspect my boss would rather you gave credit to Interiors by Pierre.’