leggings again, but eventually swapped them for the conservative choice of a navy pleated skirt topped by a round-necked cream sweater. She looped a silk scarf in shades of crimson, gold and blue round her throat, and slid her feet into simple navy loafers.
She confined her make-up to moisturiser, mascara on her long lashes, and a touch of muted coral on her lips.
Neat and tidy, but definitely not seductive, she thought, taking a last critical look at herself.
She’d seriously considered following Janie’s example, and packing a bag and disappearing for the weekend. But she guessed it would be pointless, and that in all probability she’d find him camped on her doorstep when she returned.
No, she would have to be brave and take her medicine.
She would be cool and firm, she told herself, as she set off on the short walk to the wine bar.
It was already crowded, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t there, and felt her stomach lurch in what she instantly labelled relief. Because it felt dangerously like disappointment and that wasn’t—couldn’t be possible…
And then she heard a voice call ‘Janie’ above the hubbub of voices and laughter, and saw someone on his feet beside a table in the corner.
For a moment she thought she must have been mistaken, and misheard the name, because this man was a stranger.
Then she saw him smile, and realised it was indeed Sam Alexander.
But he’s not wearing his glasses, she thought, as she threaded her way towards him through the busy room, her own mouth curving in reluctant response as she reached the table.
Little wonder she’d hardly recognised him, she thought, her brows lifting as she took in the unmistakably Italian cut of his charcoal pants, and the paler grey jacket he was wearing over a black rollneck sweater in what seemed to be cashmere.
She said a little breathlessly as she took her seat, ‘You weren’t kidding about Bond Street.’
‘Their Oxfam branch,’ he said promptly. ‘Never let me down yet.’
Ros choked on a giggle. ‘What happened to your glasses?’
‘I left them at home. You made it clear I wouldn’t have a menu to read, so I’m relying on you to decipher the wine list for me and stop me falling over the furniture.’
‘It’s a deal.’ She shook her head. ‘But you’ve let me down badly over the wig.’
‘I looked like Mel Gibson in one, and George Clooney in the other. It didn’t seem fair to expose you to that level of temptation.’ He put up a hand and touched his hair. ‘And this will grow out, I swear it.’
‘But not,’ she said, ‘during the course of a solitary drink.’
‘You never know,’ he said. ‘There could be a marked improvement by closing time.’
But by then I shall be long gone. She thought the words but did not say them aloud.
A waiter came hurrying up to the table, carrying anice bucket which contained, Ros saw, a bottle of Bollinger and two chilled flutes.
Sam said, ‘I ordered in advance. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Well—no,’ Ros said slowly. ‘But why champagne? This isn’t exactly a celebration.’
He shrugged. ‘You said one drink. I wanted it to be—special.’
‘It’s that all right.’ She watched the waiter fill the flutes, and accepted the one she was handed. ‘So what do we drink to?’ she asked lightly. ‘Ships that pass in the night?’
He said quietly, ‘Let’s start with—friendship.’ And touched his glass to hers. ‘Although we should really drink to you. You look—terrific.’
She gave a small, constrained laugh. ‘That’s because you’re not wearing your glasses.’
‘I can see well enough,’ he said. The turquoise eyes travelled slowly over her. ‘Terrific—and very different to last night—and this afternoon. How many women are you, Janie Craig?’
Embarrassed, she drank some champagne. It was cold and dry, and the bubbles seemed to burst in her mouth. Colin had never liked it, she found herself remembering. He complained it gave him
She confined her make-up to moisturiser, mascara on her long lashes, and a touch of muted coral on her lips.
Neat and tidy, but definitely not seductive, she thought, taking a last critical look at herself.
She’d seriously considered following Janie’s example, and packing a bag and disappearing for the weekend. But she guessed it would be pointless, and that in all probability she’d find him camped on her doorstep when she returned.
No, she would have to be brave and take her medicine.
She would be cool and firm, she told herself, as she set off on the short walk to the wine bar.
It was already crowded, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t there, and felt her stomach lurch in what she instantly labelled relief. Because it felt dangerously like disappointment and that wasn’t—couldn’t be possible…
And then she heard a voice call ‘Janie’ above the hubbub of voices and laughter, and saw someone on his feet beside a table in the corner.
For a moment she thought she must have been mistaken, and misheard the name, because this man was a stranger.
Then she saw him smile, and realised it was indeed Sam Alexander.
But he’s not wearing his glasses, she thought, as she threaded her way towards him through the busy room, her own mouth curving in reluctant response as she reached the table.
Little wonder she’d hardly recognised him, she thought, her brows lifting as she took in the unmistakably Italian cut of his charcoal pants, and the paler grey jacket he was wearing over a black rollneck sweater in what seemed to be cashmere.
She said a little breathlessly as she took her seat, ‘You weren’t kidding about Bond Street.’
‘Their Oxfam branch,’ he said promptly. ‘Never let me down yet.’
Ros choked on a giggle. ‘What happened to your glasses?’
‘I left them at home. You made it clear I wouldn’t have a menu to read, so I’m relying on you to decipher the wine list for me and stop me falling over the furniture.’
‘It’s a deal.’ She shook her head. ‘But you’ve let me down badly over the wig.’
‘I looked like Mel Gibson in one, and George Clooney in the other. It didn’t seem fair to expose you to that level of temptation.’ He put up a hand and touched his hair. ‘And this will grow out, I swear it.’
‘But not,’ she said, ‘during the course of a solitary drink.’
‘You never know,’ he said. ‘There could be a marked improvement by closing time.’
But by then I shall be long gone. She thought the words but did not say them aloud.
A waiter came hurrying up to the table, carrying anice bucket which contained, Ros saw, a bottle of Bollinger and two chilled flutes.
Sam said, ‘I ordered in advance. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Well—no,’ Ros said slowly. ‘But why champagne? This isn’t exactly a celebration.’
He shrugged. ‘You said one drink. I wanted it to be—special.’
‘It’s that all right.’ She watched the waiter fill the flutes, and accepted the one she was handed. ‘So what do we drink to?’ she asked lightly. ‘Ships that pass in the night?’
He said quietly, ‘Let’s start with—friendship.’ And touched his glass to hers. ‘Although we should really drink to you. You look—terrific.’
She gave a small, constrained laugh. ‘That’s because you’re not wearing your glasses.’
‘I can see well enough,’ he said. The turquoise eyes travelled slowly over her. ‘Terrific—and very different to last night—and this afternoon. How many women are you, Janie Craig?’
Embarrassed, she drank some champagne. It was cold and dry, and the bubbles seemed to burst in her mouth. Colin had never liked it, she found herself remembering. He complained it gave him
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