“No trouble,” he said lightly. Then his gaze fell over the small, portable table carried in by the caterer, and he approached, rubbing his hands together with a smack of approval. “Looks good, and it isn’t just because I’m starved.”
Obviously pleased, the waiter immediately hurried around the table and pulled out a chair, waving Cassidy toward it. Selfconsciously, she stepped over the artificial campfire, knocking only one log out of place. Then she slid into the chair, with only a small bump against the corner of the table, resulting in shaking to the floor only a single salad fork, which the waiter snatched up and polished to cleanliness with a white cloth before carefully and reverently placing it once more next to its neighbor. Cassidy sat red-faced while the waiter performed the same courtesy with the chair for Paul Spencer, but without the slightest mishap. Paul settled himself and smiled across the table at her.
“I half expected to find you outfitted in green guacamole or some such.”
The color of her face intensified. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t wear a costume to lunch.”
“Not even a costume lunch?”
His teasing relaxed her a bit, and she said, “I’ve never heard of a costume lunch.”
“Well, we’ll have to introduce it, make it the next big fad. Ought to be quite a boon for business.” A grin quirked around the corners of his mouth, and Cassidy found herself laughing. “That’s better,” he said, leaning both elbows upon the table while the waiter fluttered about, lifting covers and spooning out portions.
Cassidy felt an acute shyness. No matter what she told herself, it felt as if she was being courted. But what would be the point in that? She had already agreed to help him with his costume. More important, the man was almost engaged to be married. Even if he wasn’t, she couldn’t quite imagine why he’d be interested in her. She was just a costumer and William Penno’s younger, rather plain, sister. That in mind, she fixed her thoughts on business.
“Would you like to see my designs now?” she asked uncertainly, leaning back in her chair to allow the waiter to spread her napkin.
Paul waved a hand. “I’m too hungry to do anything just now but eat—and look at you.”
“Oh.” She resisted the urge to smooth her hair, knowing that it hung straight as a board right to the ends. After a moment she picked up her fork and began to eat her colorful fruit salad.
“Did you have a difficult time with it?” Paul asked, halfway through his salad already. “The design, I mean.”
She put down her fork and dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “No, actually, I didn’t. You’re quite easy to imagine in costume.”
“Is that good?” he asked, sounding hopeful.
She tried to find the words to explain, seeing in her mind’s eye the way she’d pictured him during the course of her research. “Yes. You see, usually I picture characters in my costumes, and then somehow they don’t look quite right on real people. Not to me, anyway.”
“And you think I’ll look the part?”
“Somehow I do.” It was odd, really, but she’d been picturing him in quite a lot of costumes lately, and he’d looked splendid in them all—at least in her mind’s eye. She shook her head.
“I imagine I will, then,” he said, and she was aware of a tingling sense of pleasure at the soft words. He trusted her judgment. It shouldn’t have pleased her so. It should have pleased William, though. The thought of anything she might do actually pleasing her rather uptight brother made her laugh, and Paul Spencer put down his fork, smiling as if he enjoyed the sound. “Why is it you lift my spirits?” he asked, parking his chin on his upraised palm.
“Me?” she heard herself say flirtatiously, and he smiled at her a long moment before picking up his fork again.
It was the most wonderful lunch of her life, and she told him so afterward.
“I wanted to do something special,” he confessed, looking deeply into her eyes. She had the feeling that if Tony hadn’t popped in just then, dressed as Charlie Chaplin, Paul would have kissed her, but then she was probably imagining things. They had a table between them, after all, even if it was a small table. The waiter had disappeared with the remains of their meal. Tony didn’t bother with ceremony.
“Phone call for Mr. Spencer.”
The intent look disappeared from Paul’s face, replaced in swift sequence by irritation, disappointment and, finally, resignation. “I don’t suppose you got a name?”
Tony’s smile was somehow galling. “I didn’t ask. It’s a woman, though, if that helps.”
A muscle ticked in the hollow of Paul’s cheek. He rose to his feet, speaking apologetically to Cassidy. “I’m sorry, but I’d better take it.”
“Take your time,” she said, getting to her own feet as the waiter returned, ostensibly for the table and folding chairs. “I’ll be in the sewing room. Show him in, please, Tony, when he’s ready.”
Tony twitched his glued-on mustache and quickly doffed his bowler. Turning on his heel, he waddled away, feet aimed in opposite directions. Paul followed, the stiffness of his manner implying anger. Cassidy wondered at that, but then it really wasn’t any of her business. Her business was costumes, and she’d best remember it. Sighing, she went off to the sewing room and began pinning her designs onto the bulletin board there for that purpose. Paul joined her in a surprisingly brief time, apparently unruffled.
He made no explanation about the call, but then she expected none. Instead, he looked around thoroughly and then approached the bulletin board, his hands clasped behind his back. He studied the drawings intently, his head turning this way and that. Once in a while he made an inquisitive sound. Otherwise, he betrayed nothing of his thoughts. After some time, he stepped back and looked at her.
“Do you have a favorite?”
The question surprised her. “Er, yes, actually I do. This one.” She pointed to the center design. He stepped forward once more and studied that particular drawing. Then he nodded and stepped back again.
“When can we begin?”
“Begin?”
“Yes, I, um, assume fittings will be required.”
“Of course, but—”
She had been about to say only one or two. He interrupted with an upraised hand. “Will Saturday work for you then, or would you rather not do it on the weekend? I’ll understand, of course. I simply thought... That is, Saturday would be good for me.”
She usually worked half days in the shop Saturdays—mornings. For some reason she said, “Saturday afternoon?”
He smiled, beamed, actually. “Excellent. Would you like to do lunch again?”
“Oh, no!” she said quickly, thinking of the expense he’d gone to. “I mean, that won’t be necessary.” He seemed a bit crestfallen, so she added, “We could have coffee here, though, if you like.”
He smiled again. “All right, I’ll see to it.”
“No, no, let me,” she insisted. “I-it’s just coffee, after all.”
“All right,” he said. “Will three be suitable?”
“Three is fine,” she told him, completely forgetting that she’d promised her mother a visit.
“Three then.” He pointed at the