The man stiffened. There was no other way to describe the sudden freezing of his body. With unhurried but nevertheless decisive movements, he released Samantha and stepped back, his expression twisting oddly in the harsh track of a spotlight. It gave her the opportunity to try and gather her own composure, though the expression in Melissa’s eyes as she looked at her was not encouraging.
She had reached the bottom of the stairs now, and her high heels rang noisily against the copper-coloured tiles. But, her attention was all on the man beside Samantha now and, although she clearly hadn’t liked their earlier closeness, his subsequent withdrawal had mollified her somewhat.
‘You came,’ she said, her expression changing to one of extreme satisfaction. ‘I hoped you would.’
‘Did you?’
His response was scarcely enthusiastic, though Samantha sensed that he was holding his real emotions in check. There was a distinct tenseness in the way he held himself, in the way he spoke. Something was going on here, something she knew nothing about, and she wished, with all her heart, that she could escape before his control snapped.
‘Yes.’ The woman’s gaze switched to the girl beside him, and Samantha thought how ironic it was that she and Melissa should have had that altercation earlier. It made the present situation so much more awkward, and she just wanted to pick up her boxes and leave. ‘I see Miss Maxwell let you in.’
‘I let myself in,’ the man contradicted her, but Melissa was not appeased.
‘But you know one another,’ she probed, crossing her arms across her midriff, and massaging her elbows with delicate hands.
‘No.’ The man—Matt?—shifted his weight from one foot to the other, pushing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘Miss—Maxwell?’ He looked briefly at Samantha, and she quickly bent her head. ‘Miss Maxwell thought I was an intruder.’
Melissa frowned. ‘Is this true?’ she asked, and Samantha sighed.
‘Yes.’
‘It was my fault for coming in the back way,’ declared Matt sardonically. He bent to pick up the knife that still lay glinting on the floor, but although he glanced at Samantha as he did so he made no mention of it. ‘So—I believe congratulations are in order. You finally got someone to take the bait.’
If Samantha was shocked by his words, Melissa was more so. ‘You—bastard!’ she choked, and the look she cast in the other woman’s direction was eloquent of the fury she felt at Samantha’s being a witness to her humiliation. There would be no useful contacts from this dinner party, not if Melissa had anything to do with it, Samantha thought ruefully. But at the same time she felt a small sense of satisfaction that whatever was going on here, the man—Matt? Matthew?—was apparently quite capable of holding his own.
‘I—if you’ll excuse me,’ she murmured, deciding not to push her luck. It was one thing to be an unwilling witness; it was quite another to become a participant in their quarrel.
Melissa took a deep breath. ‘Where are you going?’
Samantha moistened her lips. ‘I’m leaving.’
‘Like hell you are!’ Melissa shot Matthew a crippling glare. ‘People haven’t even started eating yet. It’ll be hours before the tables can be cleared. Go to the bathroom, or somewhere. Mr Putnam and I only need a few moments’ privacy.’
‘No.’ Samantha thrust the last of her belongings into the boxes, and fastened the safety clips. Right now, she didn’t particularly care if she smashed all her dishes. She just wanted to get out of there, for more reasons than she cared to consider. ‘I—your—that is, the prince knows I only—prepare the food. I don’t clean up afterwards.’
‘Why not?’ Melissa’s undoubtedly striking features were less than appealing at this moment. ‘You’re just a waitress, aren’t you? That’s what you’re doing here.’
‘No,’ said Samantha again, snatching up her jacket, and grabbing hold of two of the cold-boxes. ‘I just—deliver the food, that’s all.’ It was easier than trying to explain. ‘And now, as I say, I must be going. It—it’s getting late, and I’ve got a long way to drive.’
Melissa looked as if she would have liked to try and stop her by force, but, instead, she contented herself with a sarcastic sneer. ‘Well, you can tell your employer we weren’t very impressed with the service,’ she declared spitefully. ‘Oh, and mention the caviare, won’t you? You have heard of caviare, I assume?’
Samantha gritted her teeth, intensely aware of the man standing listening to the proceedings, with a faintly mocking expression on his dark face. ‘I’ll remember,’ she said tightly, bumping the boxes against the cupboards as she struggled to the door. Just a few more yards, she thought, wondering how she could turn the handle without wasting time putting her boxes down, and then the man intervened.
‘Allow me,’ he said, reaching past her to pull open the door, and she gave him a grateful smile. ‘Drive carefully,’ he added, as she hurriedly ascended the steps, but any response she might have made died on her lips. As she glanced behind her, Melissa came to grasp his arm, and drag him back into the kitchen. Samantha’s last glimpse was of the two of them standing very close together, and of Melissa’s scarlet-tipped fingers spread against his chest.
THE HONEY POT was hectic, and Samantha was busy microwaving dozens of the individual earthenware dishes of her home-made lasagne when she saw him.
It was odd, that sudden awareness, but she noticed him the moment he entered the café. Afterwards, she told herself it was the stir his leather-clad appearance caused among the bank clerks, shop assistants, and other office workers, who made up the bulk of the lunchtime crowd. But, whatever it was, she knew an unfamiliar sense of panic, as he threaded his way between the tables.
Debbie Donaldson, her assistant, whose job it was to serve the customers and clear the tables, intercepted him before he could reach the refrigerated cabinets, where delicious plates of sandwiches and salads were on display.
‘A table for one?’ she enquired, her wide blue eyes assessing, taking in his dark attractive features and leanly muscled frame.
‘What?’ His eyes had been on Samantha, who was hurriedly preparing another of the pre-cooked pasta dishes for the microwave, and trying to pretend she hadn’t seen him. ‘Oh—–’ He expelled his breath on an impatient sigh, and glanced briefly round the small restaurant. ‘Yes. Why not?’ His gaze narrowed to enclose only Debbie. ‘Can you fit me in?’
‘I’m sure I can.’
Debbie’s lips parted to reveal a provocative tongue, and Samantha, unwillingly aware of how impressionable the eighteen-year-old was, felt a surge of raw frustration. What was he doing here? she wondered, stifling a curse as she burned her thumb on a hot dish. He was a long way from Eyton Gate and Belgravia. How on earth had he found her? And who the hell was he anyway?
A surreptitious glance across the room informed her that Debbie had seated him at a small table in the bow window. It was one of the only two tables left vacant in the café, and was usually reserved for Mr Harris, the manager of the local building society. But Debbie wasn’t looking her way, so Samantha couldn’t signal that that table was unavailable. Debbie’s attention was firmly fixed on her customer—as was the attention of most of the females present.
Not that she could blame them, Samantha admitted ruefully, trying to concentrate on what she was doing. He was clean-shaven this morning, and the hooded eyes and stark uncompromising features possessed a potent sensuality. Two sausages, one cannelloni, and two egg and cress sandwiches, she recited silently, struggling to remember the orders. But his presence disturbed her, reminding her as it did of that evening two