listened with barely concealed curiosity.
'Perhaps I am — but I do not think so. From the moment we met, I have
sensed your hostility — or is it a game you play? Is this attitude of yours
meant to lead a man on?'
'Ohh!' Sara sucked in her breath, fingers tightening over the napkin in
her lap. She would have dearly loved to have thrown something at him, if she
wasn't being stared at.
'Have I made you angry? Is this possible?' The note of false concern in
his voice taunted her before he leaned back in his chair to drawl
sarcastically, 'I am sorry if my plain speaking offends you, Signorina Delight.
But I am long past the stage of playing silly games. There is no reason why
there should not be frankness between a man and a woman, without either one
being diminished in some way. But perhaps you do not agree?'
'I think ... I think . . .' From the corner of her eye Sara became aware
of Monique Drury's fascinated, watchful gaze, and sanity came back to her along
with the resolve that she was not going to let this monster of a man get the
best of her. Deep breathing, Sara! her other voice admonished her, and she in
her turn paused to take a sip of wine, touch her lips lightly with her napkin
before she leaned back, crossing slim legs.
She was rewarded by a flicker of those hawk-like eyes; bolstering the
smile she awarded him.
'But of course I agree with you. Game-playing. Such a silly waste of
time. True. And I don't, usually— play games or waste time, that is. Only -my
mother did din into me that I should be polite,, especially to my elders. But
we're not playing charades or "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" are
we? So I'm getting tired of all the innuendos and your rudeness, Signer Duca!'
His face had become impassive, like a mask carved from mahogany, but his
eyes remained alive; like coals pinning her in place when she had planned to
push her chair back and leave.
He said stiffly, as if the words had been forced out of him: To be rude
was not my intention, signorina. But if I seemed so I accept your rebuke. As
... one of your elders, and a foreigner at that, I did not realise that you
misunderstood me and the words I used.'
'Oh, but this is all so silly!' Monique interrupted suddenly, her voice
querulous. 'Honestly, Paul, I can't think why you haven't said something yet.
What on earth are we all getting so uptight about? I mean, we're all here
because Riccardo wanted to meet Delight, and now he has and they keep saying
these pointed things to each other. Does that mean you two like each other or
not? It really doesn't matter to me, of course, but it is getting late, and the
waiter keeps hovering around, far too nervous to beard us with the cheque. And
I'd also like to know who's going home with whom. Paul and I live in Malibu and
it's a long drive out there.'
'Shut up, Monique!' Paul said without heat, but his eyes were
questioning as they went from one stony face to mother. He added with forced
humour: 'Now that you two have finally met — and clashed — what is it to be? I
have a feeling they'd like to close this place up, but of course you can always
come out to our place (this last with a quelling look at Monique who had opened
her mouth and closed it sulkily) for bed and breakfast!'
At this point the last thing Sara wanted was more Monique — or more Paul
for that matter. And she didn't care if they cut her out of the picture or not,
why should she? The thought made her brave.
'I can get a taxi . . .' she said at about the same time her dinner
partner uttered between clenched jaws:
' I will settle the cheque with the waiter and I will take the Signorina
Delight home, since I brought her here.' He didn't quite snap his fingers, but
a gesture brought the waiter almost running to his side.
While he signed the cheque, Sara sat stiffly on the edge of her chair,
debating whether she should just get up and march out - or whether that would
seem too much like a retreat to him. Above all she didn't want him to
'Perhaps I am — but I do not think so. From the moment we met, I have
sensed your hostility — or is it a game you play? Is this attitude of yours
meant to lead a man on?'
'Ohh!' Sara sucked in her breath, fingers tightening over the napkin in
her lap. She would have dearly loved to have thrown something at him, if she
wasn't being stared at.
'Have I made you angry? Is this possible?' The note of false concern in
his voice taunted her before he leaned back in his chair to drawl
sarcastically, 'I am sorry if my plain speaking offends you, Signorina Delight.
But I am long past the stage of playing silly games. There is no reason why
there should not be frankness between a man and a woman, without either one
being diminished in some way. But perhaps you do not agree?'
'I think ... I think . . .' From the corner of her eye Sara became aware
of Monique Drury's fascinated, watchful gaze, and sanity came back to her along
with the resolve that she was not going to let this monster of a man get the
best of her. Deep breathing, Sara! her other voice admonished her, and she in
her turn paused to take a sip of wine, touch her lips lightly with her napkin
before she leaned back, crossing slim legs.
She was rewarded by a flicker of those hawk-like eyes; bolstering the
smile she awarded him.
'But of course I agree with you. Game-playing. Such a silly waste of
time. True. And I don't, usually— play games or waste time, that is. Only -my
mother did din into me that I should be polite,, especially to my elders. But
we're not playing charades or "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" are
we? So I'm getting tired of all the innuendos and your rudeness, Signer Duca!'
His face had become impassive, like a mask carved from mahogany, but his
eyes remained alive; like coals pinning her in place when she had planned to
push her chair back and leave.
He said stiffly, as if the words had been forced out of him: To be rude
was not my intention, signorina. But if I seemed so I accept your rebuke. As
... one of your elders, and a foreigner at that, I did not realise that you
misunderstood me and the words I used.'
'Oh, but this is all so silly!' Monique interrupted suddenly, her voice
querulous. 'Honestly, Paul, I can't think why you haven't said something yet.
What on earth are we all getting so uptight about? I mean, we're all here
because Riccardo wanted to meet Delight, and now he has and they keep saying
these pointed things to each other. Does that mean you two like each other or
not? It really doesn't matter to me, of course, but it is getting late, and the
waiter keeps hovering around, far too nervous to beard us with the cheque. And
I'd also like to know who's going home with whom. Paul and I live in Malibu and
it's a long drive out there.'
'Shut up, Monique!' Paul said without heat, but his eyes were
questioning as they went from one stony face to mother. He added with forced
humour: 'Now that you two have finally met — and clashed — what is it to be? I
have a feeling they'd like to close this place up, but of course you can always
come out to our place (this last with a quelling look at Monique who had opened
her mouth and closed it sulkily) for bed and breakfast!'
At this point the last thing Sara wanted was more Monique — or more Paul
for that matter. And she didn't care if they cut her out of the picture or not,
why should she? The thought made her brave.
'I can get a taxi . . .' she said at about the same time her dinner
partner uttered between clenched jaws:
' I will settle the cheque with the waiter and I will take the Signorina
Delight home, since I brought her here.' He didn't quite snap his fingers, but
a gesture brought the waiter almost running to his side.
While he signed the cheque, Sara sat stiffly on the edge of her chair,
debating whether she should just get up and march out - or whether that would
seem too much like a retreat to him. Above all she didn't want him to
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