A door shutting in the adjoining room alerted her to Rafe’s return. The staff in his family’s London apartments closed doors soundlessly, so it had to be him. He’d disappeared while the jewelers were still with her, leaving no indication of where he’d gone or when he’d be back. One of the staff had enquired as to whether she had any preferences for dinner and she had asked him to wait awhile. She’d been going to give Rafe another five minutes and then see about dinner for just herself, because she was ravenous. And if he didn’t have the decency to tell her when, or even if, he was coming back, why should she wait?
She took a deep breath. Her emotions were all over the place—she knew that—fuelled by tiredness and anxiety. Her best course of action, she’d decided, was to remain aloof from him. Tomorrow they’d be in San Philippe and she would, she was certain, see very little of him. He, after all, had a life to live. A life she was currently interrupting.
And yet, for a few minutes as they’d sat together on the log yesterday morning, she’d imagined a connection with him. She realized now he’d just been doing what he deemed necessary to get her to come with him.
She turned as he entered the room, his long stride halting abruptly. The aura of tension that had shrouded him when he’d left had diminished, but not by much. He still radiated a barely contained, frustrated energy. It was there in the tightness of his jaw and shoulders, there in the depths of his eyes.
He didn’t want to be stuck here. “The fog isn’t my fault,” she said in her defense. And more specifically he didn’t want to be stuck here with her.
That much was clear from the way he tensed up around her. It would have been obvious even if she hadn’t heard his phone call with Adam. He was watching her now, his steady gaze unreadable and disconcerting. “I’ll be just as glad as you when we’re on our way again. But in the meantime it’d certainly be a lot nicer if we could find a way to get along. And I know you don’t owe me anything, but I’d appreciate it if you’d at least let me know whether or not to expect you back when you go out. So I know whether or not to eat without you.”
The tension around his eyes had eased as she spoke, changing into surprised amusement. “Are you done?”
Amusement hadn’t been the reaction she expected, and she sighed, realizing how petulant she’d sounded. Not in the least aloof. She had to fight not to respond to that warming humor in his eyes. “Yes,” she said feeling more than a little foolish.
“And are you hungry?” he asked, a half grin lifting one corner of his lips.
“Yes.” Her stomach grumbled audibly, confirming her answer. “And sometimes,” she admitted, “I get a little cranky when I’m hungry.”
“You don’t say?” He was still trying to quell his grin. “And do you like pizza?”
Just the mention of her favorite fast food had her imagining she could smell it. “I love it,” she said with possibly more enthusiasm than was appropriate, given the surprise that registered on Rafe’s face. “Did that dossier on me go into that much detail?”
“What? About you getting cranky when you’re hungry?” He was still grinning.
“No. About the pizza.”
“No. Just asking. Hoping, actually.”
At that moment, a liveried servant walked into the room carrying an incongruous-looking large, flat, card board box in his white-gloved hands. “The usual, sir?”
Rafe nodded.
Quickly, Rafe and the servant rearranged furniture so that two of the ornate and probably priceless dining chairs were placed in front of the wide window Lexie had recently been staring out of. An ottoman was set in front of the chairs and a side table between them.
The cardboard box, linen napkins, a bottle of pinot noir and two crystal goblets were placed on the side table.
As the servant left, Lexie glanced from the box to Rafe, and her stomach grumbled again. “Is that…?” The aroma of tomato and basil permeated the air.
Rafe smiled properly, looking inordinately proud of himself. “Sure is. The uncle of a friend of mine has a place not too far from here. He makes the best pizza outside of Italy.” Rafe crossed to the table and folded back the lid of the box. “It’s simple, but exquisite. And we don’t have time for much else.”
He gave a small bow and a theatrical sweep of his arm. “Take a seat, and help yourself.”
They sat, feet almost touching on the ottoman, snow-white linen napkins on their laps, and ate looking out at the glowing lights of the fog-shrouded city.
For the first time in days the tension seeped from Lexie’s shoulders and her breath slowed. She didn’t speak until she’d finished her second slice of pizza. “Thank you. That was divine, and just what I needed.”
“I figured it’s going to be banquets from here on in till the end of the anniversary celebrations and that this might be…nice.”
“It was better than nice. It was perfect.”
The chimes of Big Ben rang out, carrying on the night air. Lexie took a sip of the pinot noir. “What did you mean, we don’t have time for much else?”
Rafe glanced at his watch as he finished a mouthful of pizza. From an inside pocket of his blazer he pulled a slip of paper and held it out to Lexie.
“What is it?”
“Look at it and find out.”
She wiped her fingertips and took the paper, eyeing both Rafe and it suspiciously.
“Tickets,” she ascertained quickly, then read the print, and then read it again. “Shakespeare. At the Globe.” She stood, her napkin falling to the floor, and hugged the tickets to her chest. “I can’t believe it. I didn’t think there’d be any chance. I never even thought to ask.”
“Royalty, even foreign and relatively minor, carries a certain amount of weight.”
Lexie laughed with delight. “Thank you.”
“Don’t. I did it for both of us. It beats staying cooped up in these apartments all evening.”
There was nothing cooped up about the expansive suites. But maybe to a prince? “Thank you, anyway. You have no idea how thrilled I am. I studied Shakespeare.”
“At Vassar. I know.”
Wow. He really had read, and paid attention to, whatever background information he’d been given on her. “So you can guess what this means to me.”
“What it means is that I don’t have to worry about you donning a wig and climbing out the window to go clubbing.”
“I didn’t bring my wig.” She still clutched the tickets in her hand. “I’ve left my clubbing days behind.”
The look Rafe cast her told her clearly he didn’t believe her.
“I’m going to be a model of respectability.”
His gaze swept her from head to toe. And though she knew there was no fault he could find with what she wore—it was all designed for the image she needed to project, elegant and stylish—still she sensed something close to disapproval in his frowning assessment.
“So, you didn’t even bring the shimmery little dress from the other night?”
“I left it behind with instructions for it to be taken to a charity shop.”
“Pity.”
“Are you absolutely determined to bait me?” She knew he didn’t like the dress; he’d as good as told her. “If you want an argument, just say so. I’ll happily give you one.” She was still smiling, content and looking forward to the Shakespeare, but she meant what she said.
Something