So she did, and when he admitted that he had never heard of the place she gave her shy, soft laugh and said, ‘Told you so.’
‘So you came here to London…for excitement?’
She shrugged. ‘I fancied a change of scenery,’ she said vaguely, not wanting to admit that the search for a bit of excitement had contributed more than a little to her reasons for leaving.
‘And what were you doing before you moved here?’ He hadn’t bothered to look at the menu, and when the waiter came to take their orders, she realised that he already knew what he wanted. Halibut, grilled. Her choice of chicken in a wine and cream sauce seemed immoderate in comparison, but a lack of appetite was not something she had ever suffered from, despite her slight build. She had eaten her way through twenty-two years of her mother’s wonderful home cooking, including puddings that ignored advice on cholesterol levels, and had never put on any excess weight.
‘Secretarial work,’ she answered. ‘Plus I helped Mum and Dad a lot at home. Doing typing for Dad, going to see his parishioners…’
‘Your father’s a…priest?’ He couldn’t have sounded more shocked if she had said that her father manufactured opium for a living.
‘A vicar,’ she said defensively. ‘And a brilliant one at that.’
He smiled, a long, warm smile that transformed his face, removed all the aggression, and sent little shivers scurrying up and down her spine like spiders.
‘You’re a vicar’s daughter.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Your parents must have had a fit when you told them that you wanted to move to London.’
He was watching her as though she was the most fascinating human being on the face of the earth, and the undiluted attention addled her brain and brought more waves of pink colour to her cheeks.
‘They were very supportive, as a matter of fact.’
‘But worried sick.’
‘A little worried,’ Ruth admitted, nervously playing with the cutlery next to her plate and then sticking her hands resolutely on her lap when she realised that fiddling was not classed as great restaurant etiquette.
‘So…’ The speculative look was back in his eyes as he relaxed in the chair and looked at her. ‘Let me get this straight… You worked as a secretary after you left school, lived at home with your parents and then moved to London where you…did what until you started working at the magazine?’
‘I found somewhere to live… Actually, Mum and Dad came with me a month before I left home and made sure that I had somewhere to go…I think they imagined me walking the streets of London and sleeping rough on park benches…’ She smiled again, the same slow smile that transformed the features of her pretty but not extraordinary face into a quite striking glimpse of ethereal beauty.
‘I got work temping at an office in Marble Arch and after a few months, when I was hunting around for something more permanent…’ she shrugged and reflected on her stroke of luck ‘…I happened to be in the agency when Alison, Miss Hawes, arrived to register a job for a dogsbody, and I was given the job on the spot.’
‘So you run errands,’ he murmured to himself. ‘And you’re satisfied with that line of work?’
‘Well, I do enjoy working for the magazine,’ Ruth said thoughtfully, ‘and hopefully I might be given some more responsibility when my appraisal comes up…the pay’s very good, though…’
‘I know. I’ve handled enough businesses to know that motivation and loyalty are heavily tied in to working conditions, and good pay makes for a good employee, generally speaking.’
Their food arrived and they both sat back to allow the large circular plates to be put in front of them.
‘How many businesses do you own?’ Ruth asked faintly.
‘Sufficient to allow me very little free time, hence my non-appearance at the magazine. I spend most of my time out of the country, overseeing my divisions in North America and the Far East, although I have been to see how Alison was getting on a couple of times. You weren’t there. I would have remembered you.’
Ruth, more relaxed now that she had something aside from him to concentrate on—namely the brimming plate of divine food in front of her—lowered her eyes and said to her forkful of chicken and vegetables, ‘No, you wouldn’t. I’m not one of life’s memorable women.’ Her parents had always told her that she was beautiful, but then all parents said stuff like that. She only had to look in the mirror to know that she simply wasn’t flamboyant enough ever to cross the line between being reasonably pretty and downright sexy. She couldn’t be sexy if she tried.
He didn’t say anything.
Unusually for him, he was finding it hard to keep his eyes away from the woman sitting opposite him, her soft face downturned as she tucked into her food without inhibition.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had been in the company of a woman who still had the capacity to blush. They could laugh, they could flirt, and they were adept at revealing enough of their bodies to incite interest, but when it came to the hesitant air of innocence that this woman in front of him possessed, they none of them could have captured it if they tried.
And it was this dreamy, uncertain shyness that had aroused him almost from the minute he had clapped eyes on her. He broke off to eat a mouthful of food, but his eyes slid back to her face of their own volition.
He had a ridiculous urge to impress her. To say something or do something that would make her look at him with the hot interest he had become accustomed to in members of the opposite sex. He watched the way her blonde straight hair slipped across her face as she ate and the way she tucked it casually behind her ears. She looked about bloody sixteen! He must be going mad!
‘You never told me,’ she said, interrupting his thoughts, which were veering off wildly into the arena of sexual foreplay. ‘Are you from Italy?’ She blushed and smiled. ‘Silly question. Of course you are with a name like yours. How long have you lived in London?’
‘Most of my life. My mother was Irish, my father was Italian.’ What, he wondered, would it feel like to reach out and touch that peach-smooth face? The thought fascinated him. He realised that he wasn’t eating and shovelled some mouthfuls in while his mind wandered away again. What would her body look like? It was difficult to tell underneath her demure calf-length skirt and neat white blouse. He toyed with the fantasy of divesting her of both, very, very, very slowly, and he could feel himself stiffening at the thought of it.
This was ludicrous! He was responding like a teenager who had never touched a woman in his life before!
‘How exotic!’ she responded, and it occurred to him that, however damned exotic she might find his ancestry, it wasn’t quite enough to distract her from the business of eating. In fact, he thought with a twitch of resentment, she seemed a lot more interested in the food than she did in him.
‘There’s no need to show polite interest,’ he said abruptly, and her grey eyes registered dismay at his reaction.
‘I am interested,’ she protested, unnerved by the sudden brusqueness in his voice. She was boring him. Of course she was. How could a gauche woman like herself ever hope to capture the interest of a man like him, all glamour and fast-lane living. ‘The food’s wonderful, isn’t it?’ she volunteered tentatively, feeling her way towards a topic that might smooth the undercurrent that seemed to have inexplicably developed.
‘I can see that you’ve enjoyed it,’ he said wryly.
Ruth gave a sheepish smile. ‘I have a very unladylike appetite, I’m afraid.’ She had managed to eat every mouthful, and if she had been in the company of anyone else would have happily bolted down some dessert as well. Instead, she closed her knife and fork, declined pudding and