‘Make an exception,’ he persisted, casting another swift glance along the length of the high street. ‘Oh—excuse me a moment. I have to speak to someone. Just wait here. This won’t take very long.’
Isobel sighed. This was becoming ridiculous. Why couldn’t he just accept that she didn’t want to have lunch with him? Just because he was used to getting his own way it was no reason for her to bolster his ego.
Her awareness of eyes boring into her back made her turn her head. Christine and her sister were peering around the tastefully designed pyramid of scented candles she’d just arranged that morning. Evidently they had seen him talking to her, and were watching eagerly to see what happened next. Well, they were going to be disappointed, she decided. She was not going to provide a peep-show for anyone.
Patrick Riker had crossed the pavement, and was presently leaning in the window of a large green limousine that was parked at the kerb. The driver of the limousine was a black man, she noticed unwilling. Was that the car Chris had spoken about—the swish vehicle she’d thought was a Rolls-Royce?
She wasn’t interested.
Jamming her teeth together, Isobel strode quickly to the first intersection. It had occurred to her that, as Patrick Riker didn’t know his way around Horsham, if she could disappear into a side-street she could very likely give him the slip. She might even be able to make her way home, if she used a roundabout route. It was annoying that she was having to do this, but she didn’t believe he wanted to speak to her about her business at all.
So what did he want to speak to her about? She tapped her foot impatiently as a delivery wagon took an inordinate amount of time to clear the junction. She wasn’t absurdly modest, but she wasn’t credulous either. He hadn’t bought the necklace because he fancied her. He was far too sophisticated for that.
‘Isobel—Miss Herriot!’
He had seen her. Even as she contemplated pretending she hadn’t heard his call, the powerful limousine swept by her, with only the driver on board. Already Patrick Riker’s powerful strides were eating up the ground between them. She could wait for him, or she could run. Somehow the latter seemed vaguely childish.
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked when he reached her, and she looked at him with irritation in her eyes.
‘I thought I’d explained—I don’t have time to eat lunch,’ she said, preparing to cross the street. ‘Thank you for your invitation, but I’ve got more important things to do.’
‘More important than expanding your business?’ he asked, taking her breath away with the scope of his suggestion. ‘I’m in a position to offer you another outlet. In—Stratford, let’s say, if that appeals to you.’
Isobel swallowed. ‘Why?’
He looked a little taken aback at that, but he recovered quickly, and moved his shoulders in a dismissive gesture. ‘Why not?’ he countered. ‘It seems a worthwhile proposition.’ He paused. ‘We could discuss it at more length if you’d agree to join me for lunch.’
Isobel tried to think. ‘I—I can’t.’
‘Why can’t you?’
‘Because—’ she consulted the rather mannish watch on her wrist ‘—I’ve got to be back at the shop in half an hour. Chris—my assistant—only works part-time. I promised I wouldn’t be long.’
Which was at least partially true. Chris did only work part-time, and she had said she wouldn’t be long. But she had no doubt that Chris would understand if she was late. Particularly if she thought her employer was having lunch with him.
His hesitation was only momentary. ‘Dinner, then,’ he said, his lips thinning as if the idea was as alien to him as it was to her. ‘Have dinner with me this evening. I’d very much like to talk to you.’
Isobel hesitated now. Common sense advised her to refuse his invitation, but, deep inside, some rebellious instinct was urging her to accept. What did she have to lose, after all? It wasn’t as if she was in any danger of falling for him. She should take the opportunity to be wined and dined by an attractive man at its face value. At the least, she’d probably enjoy the meal, and it was always possible that he did mean what he said.
‘All right,’ she said, her tongue once again acting several seconds ahead of her brain. ‘Um—where shall we go? I’ll meet you.’ She cast her mind around. ‘There’s pub at Swalford called The Coach House. It’s only about a mile away. How about that?’
‘Sounds good.’ His expression softened. ‘But why don’t I pick you up? That way we can both have a drink.’
‘It’s all right. I don’t drink much anyway,’ declared Isobel hurriedly. She had no desire for him to find out where she lived. ‘I’ll meet you there at—at half past seven. Or is that too early for you? I can’t make it any sooner because the shop doesn’t close until six o’clock.’
‘No problem.’ The wind ruffled his hair again, and he swept it back with an impatient hand. ‘Until half past seven, then. I’ll be looking forward to it.’
Isobel smiled, but she didn’t make a similar claim. Now that the arrangements were made, she was suffering the usual feelings of doubt about her decision. Why had she agreed to meet him when she believed his motives were suspect? Somehow, the justification that she had nothing to lose no longer convinced her.
Isobel got home that evening later than she had anticipated. Several Japanese tourists, who had been visiting the monastery, had discovered the shop on the way back to the coach, and because of language difficulties their purchases had taken rather longer then she would have liked. Of course, they were charming people, and unfailingly polite, but by the time Isobel had ushered the last pair out of the door it was already quarter past six.
One way and another, it had been a frustrating day, she thought tensely, and it wasn’t over yet. She still had to decide what she was going to wear tonight, and the prospect of the evening ahead filled her with unease.
Still, she was committed to going, and according to Chris, who had insisted on hearing all the details, she should make the most of it. Whatever his motives, her young assistant had told her, Patrick Riker was the most exciting man she had ever met, and if Isobel wanted a substitute she’d happily go in her place.
Of course, that was out of the question, and Chris knew it. But that hadn’t stopped her offering Isobel advice on everything from the clothes she should choose to the make-up she should wear.
‘Put on some of that Champagne perfume,’ she’d suggested, mentioning the expensive Yves Saint Laurent fragrance her parents had bought her for her birthday. ‘And for goodness’ sake don’t put your hair in that braid. Leave it loose, for once. It suits you.’
Now, half an hour later, Isobel surveyed the pile of discarded garments lying on the bed with raw impatience. It was no use; she had nothing suitable for spending an evening with a man like him. She had thought her navy suit would do, but that looked incredibly formal, and her dresses were all cotton, and most of them had seen better days.
All she was left with were the full skirts and loose shirts she usually wore for working in. Most of the time, when she wasn’t wearing her long skirts or cotton dresses, she wore jeans and sweaters. But, like everything else she’d pulled out of her wardrobe, the jeans were worn and shabby. Her mother was right; she should spend more time on herself. But that wasn’t going to help her now.
With an irritated gesture, she snatched up the least boring item on the bed and put it on. As a matter of fact, it was also her least favourite garment, which was probably why it didn’t look as tired as the rest. It was a sleeveless pinafore, made of fine black cotton jersey, which she’d previously only worn with a T-shirt underneath. But tonight she allowed the spaghetti straps to rest on her smooth bare shoulders,