One Reckless Night

When it was her turn to be served, she ordered a dry sherry.

‘Trudy’s laid your table in the snug,’ the barmaid told her, carefully handing her a brimming schooner. ‘She thought it would be a bit quieter in there.’

Zanna carried her drink through the doorway indicated. It was a small room, cosy, with high-backed settles and polished oak tables. A small fire of sweet-smelling apple logs had been kindled in the hearth, dispelling the faint chill of the evening.

Only one table was laid for a meal, but two places had been set, with a bowl of freesias and a single candle burning in a stylish glass holder. There was, moreover, a bottle of Chablis waiting in a cooler.

Zanna, viewing these preparations in total bewilderment, heard the door squeak open behind her—presumably to admit Mrs Sharman with her meal.

‘There’s been some mistake,’ she began. ‘I didn’t order any wine...’

‘It’s a peace-offering.’

The voice she knew at once. Only too well. But as she swung round to face him, her expression freezing into annoyance, a surprised gasp escaped her parted lips rather than the haughty dismissal she’d been framing.

Clean-shaven, with that dark mane of hair neatly combed, he looked almost prepossessing. His clothes— the well-fitting dark trousers, the pale grey jacket that might almost be cashmere, the classic white shirt and the silk tie in sombre jewel colours—all bore the hallmarks of Italian designer wear. And the aroma of engine oil had been exchanged for the discreet scent of a very up-market cologne.

In fact, more than prepossessing, she realised with shock, as a strange awareness shivered along her nerve-endings. He was dangerously attractive.

That faintly mocking grin hadn’t changed, however. And Zanna had noticed before what beautiful teeth he had.

‘Lost for words?’ he enquired lightly. ‘That must be a novelty.’

‘Well, yes.’ Zanna drew a breath. ‘I—I hardly recognized you,’ she added lamely.

‘Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.’ He paused, as if choosing his words carefully, his face suddenly serious. ‘I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier.’ He gestured towards the table. ‘I’d like to make amends.’

She felt her heart thump painfully, as if in warning. ‘That’s really not necessary.’

‘You’re condemning me to eat alone in the opposite corner?’ There was a smile behind the plaintive words. ‘I was thinking of Trudy as well, you see,’ he went on beguilingly. ‘How much easier it would be for her if we shared a table.’

Somehow he made it sound all so reasonable—so impossible to refuse.

Without quite knowing how, Zanna found herself facing him across the freesias. And, as if at some unseen signal, Mrs Sharman bustled in with the first course.

Their meal began with watercress soup, served with a swirl of cream. Zanna had thought she would have no appetite, but she finished every drop.

‘Good?’ her companion queried, with a smile across the flickering candle-flame.

‘Better than that.’ Zanna put down her spoon with a sigh. ‘I was expecting just fish pie.’

‘Not from Trudy’s kitchen. Even though it’s officially closed tonight she has her pride, and you’re a resident so must therefore be cherished.’

‘And what’s your excuse?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m a lonely bachelor who has to forage for himself, so she takes pity on me once in a while.’

If he was lonely, Zanna thought wryly, then it had to be through his own choice. Or perhaps he was simply too busy trying to maintain a small business to organise a private life as well.

That was something she could understand. She’d acted as hostess for her father times without number, but she couldn’t remember, she thought with bewilderment, the last time she had dined à deux with a man.

Few, if any, of the men who’d sought her company had passed muster after Sir Gerald’s rigorous vetting.

‘You’re my daughter, Zanna,’ her father had constantly reminded her. ‘My heiress. How can you ever be sure if it’s you they want or my money?’

It was a lesson which had gone home, however much it might have hurt.

But this time there was no real risk involved, she assured herself. Because the man facing her across the table had no idea who or what she was. And she firmly intended to keep it that way.

As if picking up some unspoken cue, he said, ‘We’ve never actually introduced ourselves, have we?’

‘No.’ Zanna’s mind worked quickly. ‘I’m Susan,’ she announced. ‘Susan—er—Smith.’

‘Really?’ The firm mouth quirked slightly. ‘How unusual. And I’m Jake.’ He paused. ‘Jake—er—Brown,’ he added, with sardonic emphasis.

Zanna felt her cheeks pinken, but she made herself meet his glance with apparent unconcern. After all, what did it matter? she comforted herself. They were ships passing in the night. Nothing more. And she had no more wish to know his real identity than to reveal her own.

The arrival of the next course relieved the awkwardness of the moment. The fish pie more than lived up to its recommendation. Under jts creamy mashed potato and cheese topping, cod, smoked haddock and prawns jostled for precedence in a delicious creamy sauce, and then, to finish with, there was a sumptuously rich chocolate mousse with a wicked undercurrent of brandy.

Jake led the conversation throughout the meal, but he kept to general topics, touching lightly on places of interest in the locality and leading on to the success of the exhibition. Nothing on a personal level, she noted with relief.

Finally Trudy brought excellent coffee and a smooth Armagnac.

Who could ask for anything more? Zanna wondered as she leaned against the high back of the wooden settle, cradling the goblet in her hand and contemplating the flames leaping around the sweet apple logs.

‘Don’t get too comfortable.’ His smile reached her across the candle-flame, sending a faint, troublous shiver down her spine. ‘I’m claiming the first waltz.’

She sat up with a startled jerk. ‘But I’m not going to the dance.’

‘Why not? There’s nothing else to do tonight.’

‘I don’t dance.’

‘I’ll teach you.’

‘And I’m not dressed for it,’ she added swiftly.

‘You could be—with a few adjustments.’ He rose and came round the table to her side.

Stunned, Zanna felt him release the ribbon holding her hair.

‘Now that is so much better,’ he said softly as the blonde strands fell forward to curve round her face.

He reached down, almost in the same movement, and undid the top button of her blouse.

Her hand lifted swiftly to check him as the blood stormed into her face. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘Only this.’ With total insouciance he tied the ribbon round her exposed throat in a neat bow, then lifted her to her feet, making her face the mirror over the fireplace. ‘So, Cinderella, you shall go to the ball.’