An Exception to His Rule by Lindsay Armstrong Page A

it got in it?’
    Harriet rested her elbows on the table and dangled her fork in her fingers. ‘Let’s see, chicken and prawns, rice, saffron, of course, tomatoes, onions, garlic, baby peas—that’s mainly it. I guess people have their own variations but that’s mine.’
    ‘If you’d told me I could have brought some Sangria.’
    Harriet put her fork down and picked up her wine glass. ‘It’s a very nice Beaujolais.’
    ‘Thanks. So,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘cooking is another of your accomplishments. You’re a talented girl.’
    ‘That’s about the sum of it, though,’ she said wryly. ‘And I don’t think I was born to cook. It came about through necessity.’
    ‘How come?’
    She explained about how she’d grown up.
    ‘So that’s why you’re so protective of your brother,’ he commented. ‘I suppose in a way I’m the same with Charlie. Our father died when he was seventeen. I’ve been standing in loco parentis ever since.’ He grimaced.
    Harriet pushed her plate away and picked up her glass. ‘Charlie’s a honey,’ she said warmly.
    Damien narrowed his eyes. ‘He hasn’t been chatting you up, has he?’
    ‘Not at all. He’s been trying to pin me down, if anything. As in trying to work me out. He believes, he says, anyway, I’m not like anyone else he’s met. Mainly, from what I can gather—’ she shrugged ruefully ‘—because of my work ethic.’
    ‘How’s it going, work-wise?’
    Harriet studied her wine. ‘Another week should do it.’
    ‘You would have finished before I came home, if things had run to schedule, in other words.’
    Harriet took a sip of her wine, put the glass down and plucked a basil leaf from the herb pot and crushed it between her fingers. ‘Yes.’
    He shrugged. ‘Still hell-bent on being fancy-free, in other words?’
    ‘Ah.’ Harriet got up and collected their plates. She took them to the sink then opened the fridge and withdrew a lemon meringue dessert. She put it on the table, together with a tub of ice cream.
    ‘If that’s meant to placate me,’ he said with a sudden wicked gleam of amusement in his dark eyes, ‘you’ve hit the right button, ma’am. I cannot resist lemon meringue. Just don’t tell the cook. He believes he and only he can make a perfect meringue. Incidentally, I’m in his black books.’
    Harriet looked a question at him.
    ‘He wanted to cook dinner for me.’
    She smiled absently and set a coffee pot on to percolate. ‘You’re popular.’
    He didn’t respond and she sat down and served his dessert in silence.
    ‘What about you? Of course,’ he said, ‘you don’t have a sweet tooth.’
    She nodded and he ate in silence until he said, ‘You know, you haven’t tripped or spilled anything tonight, which means you must be feeling more at ease so—can I put a proposition to you?’
    Harriet blinked several times. ‘What?’
    ‘That we at least agree we have a rather devastating effect on each other.’ He paused as Harriet looked away at the same time as she coloured.
    ‘Yes,’ she said after a long moment, and started as the coffee began to perk.
    ‘I’ll get it.’ He got up and, without much fuss, found mugs and milk and sugar. ‘However,’ he continued, ‘for reasons best known only to us, we’re not keen to—start anything.’ He looked briefly amused. ‘Sounds a bit juvenile, doesn’t it, but you probably get my drift.’
    Harriet nodded.
    ‘Incidentally, why did you,’ he said as he began to pour the coffee, ‘ask me to dinner tonight?’
    Harriet hesitated. ‘I...I felt I owed you some explanation.’
    He sat down. ‘You don’t “owe” me anything,’ he said abruptly.
    ‘Mr...Damien,’ Harriet said sternly, ‘you told me once you didn’t appreciate being told what you should or should not feel, didn’t you?’
    He grimaced. ‘Did I?’
    ‘Yes! Well, I’m telling you I feel as if I owe you an explanation and that’s that—damn!’ she said with great feeling. ‘Now you’ve got