Crossing her fingers, Romy said, ‘Um—I promised my friend Stephanie that I would go and listen to her sing.’
‘So you wanted somewhere near the Royal Opera House?’ he guessed.
Actually, Stephanie couldn’t hold a tune to save her life, and was the least artistic person Romy knew—but there was no need for Dominic to know that. She needed to distract him!
Romy started rustling some papers close to the telephone.
‘What was that?’ he asked, and Romy could tell he was frowning.
‘I’ve no idea. I’d better go and investigate. I’ll see you later, Dominic.’
And she hung up.
‘I could hardly find you, stuck away out here,’ came the sardonic comment, and Romy didn’t need to look up from her mostly gulped down glass of gin and tonic to know who the speaker was.
She looked up to see that he was wearing a suit, and she almost did what he had accused her of longing to do. She almost swooned.
But not quite.
Nonetheless, her outward display of disinterest did not stop her eyes from wandering over him with hypnotic obsession.
The suit was dark grey—a grey that was the stormy colour of his eyes when he was angry. Which seemed to be most of the time when she was around! And the suit must have been designed with Dominic in mind, Romy decided, because the trousers made his lean legs look heart-stoppingly long and the superbly cut jacket emphasised his broad shoulders and the narrow indentation of his waist.
‘Hi!’ she greeted him, rather too brightly. ‘Do sit down, Dominic. You managed to find it all right, then?’
He was still looking at their table with a disbelieving frown. ‘Wouldn’t you rather sit in the main part of the restaurant?’ he persisted as a waiter emerged through the swing doors and whizzed right past them with two steaming platefuls of pasta balanced precariously on the palm of each hand. ‘It looks as though we could spend the evening fielding missiles if we stay here,’ he murmured.
Determined to show that she didn’t care that the maître d’ had seated them in the darkest corner at the back of the restaurant, somewhere in between the kitchens and the lavatories, Romy fixed a wide smile to her mouth. ’Rubbish! Besides, I like The Olive Branch for its delicious food, not the fact that half the media people in London are busy filling their faces!’
Dominic took his seat and looked around the restaurant with interest. ‘I didn’t realise they had an ante-room,’ he observed neutrally.
‘It is not an ante-room!’ Romy snapped. ‘I just thought you might like a little peace and quiet.’
‘I’ll certainly get that!’ he quipped. ‘It looks about as popular as a rainstorm on Derby day!’
Fortunately, at that moment the waiter interrupted them with menus and gave Romy a conspiratorial wink. She had virtually had to get down on her hands and knees and beg for a table. Even a table like this!
And now she wished that she had not behaved like a madwoman—trying to impress Dominic with her choice of restaurant. She should have taken him to a simple soup and salad bar...
‘Just pasta with clams,’ Dominic was saying to the waiter. ‘No, I won’t have a starter, thanks,’ he added, in reply to the waiter’s question. ‘It’s a little late for a three-course meal.’
‘I—I’ll have the same,’ Romy spluttered, wondering how he managed to be quite so superior.
‘And to drink, signore?’
‘The Bardolino, please.’ Dominic smiled and lifted curved black brows in query. ‘Unless you would prefer to choose, Romy?’
He didn’t actually say that if her wine choice was as bad as her table choice then it would leave a lot to be desired, but that was clearly what he meant, thought Romy furiously. She was half tempted to choose the sweetest, most sickly white wine on the menu but thought better of it. ‘Bardolino will be fine,’ she said tightly.
A distinctly awkward silence descended on them while the waiter bustled around, substituting spoons and swapping knives around and pouring wine, and then at last they were alone and Romy found that all her bravado had suddenly deserted her.
For the first time in her life she almost wished that she smoked because she was having awful difficulty deciding what to do with her shaking hands.
In the end she knotted them in her lap and smiled at him inanely. ‘Have all your guests confirmed?’ she babbled. ‘Twelve, wasn’t it?’
‘Ten,’ he corrected her, with a frown. He took a sip of his wine and put the glass down, his thick lashes allowing only a glimmer of silver light to shine from his narrowed eyes.
‘Pretty small do,’ she commented.
‘That’s right.’
‘And the purpose of the party?’
He gave her an ironic look. ‘Do all parties have to have a purpose, then? Can’t it just be for fun?’
Romy shook her head. ‘If it was just for fun you’d organise it yourself. Wouldn’t you?’
‘I doubt it.’ He twirled the stem of his wineglass between thumb and forefinger. ‘The idea of people roaming around my house wanting to be entertained fills me with a certain amount of dread, if you must know.’
‘But there’s only going to be ten people,’ she pointed out. ‘That’s hardly going to fill a stadium!’
‘It’s quite enough,’ he murmured.
‘Well, if you dislike it so much, then why are you doing it?’
He surveyed her over the rim of his wineglass and his eyes glinted.
‘Don’t be so coy, Dominic!’ she snapped, when he didn’t answer. ‘You obviously want to impress someone, don’t you? Maybe a woman?’
He met her interested stare with a mocking gaze. ‘There’s no need to sound so outraged, Romy,’ he responded with dry evasion, then smiled and leaned back while the waiter deposited a steaming plate full of clam-studded spaghetti in front of each of them. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
Suddenly Romy wondered if she needed her head examined. Fancy ordering spaghetti when you were feeling nervous! She could barely hold her fork without her fingers shaking—let alone expertly twist strands of the pasta round it, in the way that Dominic was doing.
She watched a clam disappear down his throat. Lucky old clam, she found herself thinking, and put her fork down.
‘Tell me why you’re having this party,’ she persisted, her fingertips unconsciously roving over her bare neck.
‘It’s part business, part pleasure,’ he told her, laying his fork down on his plate. ‘Basically, I want to buy some land in the north-east of England to develop into a massive entertainment complex. I love the area—and people up there certainly know how to enjoy themselves! The land in question belongs to Dolly and Archie Bailey, who are trying to decide whether or not to sell it to me. And they’re bringing their son and his wife, too—just to help them decide.’
‘And have you offered them a fair price?’
‘More than fair,’ he answered drily. ‘What did you expect?’ He shot her a narrow-eyed look. ‘On second thoughts, don’t answer that.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is that I live in the south of England, and therefore they classify me as a southerner—’
‘Which you’re not, you mean?’
‘I’m nothing