Rich as Sin Read online

  ‘Who do you think?’ she exclaimed. ‘The joker sitting over there by the window. The one doing an imitation of Mel Gibson.’

  Samantha blinked, really confused this time. ‘Mel Gibson?’ she echoed.

  ‘Mad Max?’ suggested Debbie shortly, in the tone of one explaining table manners to a five-year-old. ‘And don’t pretend you didn’t see him come in. You and half the female population of Northfleet!’

  Samantha expelled her breath, and laid one slice of bread over the other. ‘Well—what does he want?’ she asked, praying he hadn’t told Debbie of their earlier encounter. But the younger girl only shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. He just said he wanted to speak to you. Do you know him? Is he a friend of Paul’s?’

  ‘Hardly.’ The word was out before Samantha could prevent it, but she covered herself by adding swiftly, ‘I ask you: does he look like a friend of Paul’s?’

  Debbie cast a glance over her shoulder. ‘Well, no,’ she admitted. ‘I can’t honestly see Paul buying leather gear, let alone getting into it.’ She turned back to look at her employer. ‘So what do you think he wants? Protection money?’

  Samantha’s amused gasp had a trace of hysteria in it. ‘Protection money!’ she echoed disparagingly. My God! Debbie had some imagination. She sobered abruptly. But perhaps it wasn’t so far-fetched. Maybe she did need protection. From him!

  ‘Well, are you going to go and see what he wants, or aren’t you?’ Debbie demanded, resentful that her idea had been dismissed so wholeheartedly. ‘I suppose he could have a message or something. You know, one of those express delivery services. It’s obvious he’s come on a motorbike.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Now Samantha permitted herself another brief glance in his direction. To her relief, he was looking out of the window and didn’t see her. But her own reaction to his lounging figure was no less disruptive because of that.

  ‘I’d say so,’ Debbie declared now, edging Samantha aside, and taking over the slicing of the sandwich. ‘Go on. You’d better see what he wants. I get the feeling he’s not going to go away until he’s spoken to you.’

  Samantha expelled her breath unevenly, and looked down at her bibbed apron. Her immediate impulse was to take it off, but of course she didn’t. So far as she knew, he was here to have lunch just like any other of her customers. He had asked her to serve him because he felt that their previous encounter entitled him to trade on their acquaintance. And besides, she could imagine Debbie’s reaction if she attempted to smarten herself up to speak to him. He had already caused enough of a stir by coming here. Paul was bound to hear about it anyway, so why exacerbate an already awkward situation?

  In consequence, she felt a certain amount of trepidation as she made her way towards him. The smiles she cast at her regular customers were unusually tight, and the words she did exchange were short and to the point. It wasn’t that she never served the customers. On the contrary, sometimes she and Debbie were both practically run off their feet, particularly at weekends. But this was different, and she knew it. And with Debbie’s eyes upon her, it was difficult to behave naturally.

  He half got out of his seat, as she approached the table, but then, as if realising it wasn’t the done thing, he subsided again. With his arm hooked across the back of his chair, and his ankle resting easily across his knee, he lazily resumed his lounging position.

  ‘You’ll forgive me for not getting up,’ he said, as she reached the table, and Samantha came to an unwilling halt.

  ‘What can I get you?’ she asked, carefully ignoring his attempt to be familiar. ‘The menu’s on the table.’

  ‘So it is.’ His eyes flicked carelessly over the plastic clip that held the printed card. ‘What would you recommend?’ He glanced about him. ‘The lasagne appears to be popular.’

  Samantha thrust her fists into the pouchlike pocket of her apron. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded, and they both knew she was not talking about the menu now. ‘I’m very busy.’

  ‘So I see.’ His dark eyes assessed her flushed cheeks, and the wisps of moist hair that clung to her forehead. ‘How long have you been running this place?’

  ‘Two years—if that’s any concern of yours.’ Samantha’s nervousness was giving way to indignation. ‘Look, I don’t know why you’ve come here, but I wish you hadn’t. Now, if you want to eat, OK. Otherwise, I’m going to have to ask you to vacate this table.’

  Humour tugged at the corners of his lips, but he reached obediently for the menu. ‘I’ll have—a toasted cheese sandwich,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Oh—and a beer, too. If you have one.’

  Samantha was fairly sure he knew they didn’t have a licence to serve alcohol, and her nails dug into her palms. ‘That’ll have to be a fruit juice,’ she informed him, resenting the fact that she had no excuse not to serve him. And, remembering he had been drinking the last time she spoke to him, she added tautly, ‘Perhaps you’d be better off at the pub!’

  ‘No. I’ll stay here,’ he responded, setting the menu back on the table. ‘Thanks.’

  Samantha hesitated, and then, realising she had no further reason to linger, she turned and stamped back into the kitchen. But her normally even-tempered mood was shattered, and Debbie eyed her warily as she slapped two slices of bread under the grill.

  ‘What did he say?’ she asked, after a moment, curiosity getting the better of her, and Samantha cast her a scowling glance.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied at last, realising she was going the right way to arouse the girl’s suspicions. ‘He wants a toasted cheese sandwich and a glass of orange juice. You can take it to him.’

  ‘Me?’ Debbie looked surprised, and Samantha couldn’t blame her. ‘So why did he ask for you to serve him?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Samantha flipped the bread over, and reached for the cheese. ‘Go and see if any tables need clearing. As you’ve commandeered Mr Harris’s table, you’ll have to find somewhere else to put him when he comes in.’

  Debbie pressed her lips together. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Sam?’ she persisted, evidently feeling some responsibility for what had happened, and not happy with the result. ‘You look—sort of upset.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Debbie.’ Samantha managed a faint smile, as she covered the bread with cheese, and returned it to the grill. ‘I’m just annoyed because there was no earthly reason why you couldn’t have—have taken his order, that’s all. Now, hurry up. This is almost ready.’

  For the next half-hour, Samantha managed to keep herself too busy to pay any attention to her unwelcome visitor. There were meals to heat and serve, extra salads to be made, and plenty of dirty plates to load into the dishwasher. If Debbie thought she was less talkative than usual, she didn’t say anything. Besides, she was busy too, and it wasn’t until the café had practically cleared that Samantha noticed that he was still there.

  It didn’t really surprise her. She guessed Debbie would have said something if he had departed. But seeing him still seated at the table, apparently engrossed in a newspaper someone must have left behind, still infuriated her, and she wished she had the strength to throw him out.

  ‘Go and tell him we’re getting ready to close,’ she murmured to Debbie, but the younger girl firmly shook her head.

  ‘You know we don’t close until half-past five,’ she said. ‘If you want to lie about it, you do it. He wasn’t too pleased when I brought his sandwich, so don’t expect me to do your dirty work.’

  Samantha grimaced. ‘I’m only asking you to fib a little. He doesn’t know anything about this place.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Debbie was looking at her with that curious look again, and Samantha expelled a frustrated sigh. ‘I don’t—know—not for sure. But you haven’t seen him round here before, have you? It’s obvious he’s not going to know what our hours are.’

  ‘They’re written on the door,’ retorted Debbie flatly, and Samantha acknowledged that she had forgotten that.

  �
�OK,’ she said, giving in. ‘I’ll go and see if he’s finished.’

  He looked up as she reached the table, and, seeing who it was, he folded the newspaper and put it aside. ‘Very nice,’ he said, and for a moment she was so nervous, she didn’t know what he was talking about. ‘The sandwich,’ he prompted, noticing her blank expression. ‘As good as any I’ve tasted. You had the consistency of the cheese just right.’

  Samantha allowed all the air to escape from her lungs, and then took a steadying breath. ‘So,’ she said, ‘is that all? Would you like your bill?’

  ‘What I’d like is for you to sit down with me,’ he replied evenly, no trace of humour in his expression now. ‘You’ve been running yourself ragged for the last hour, at least. Don’t you think you deserve a break?’

  ‘I’ll have a break when all the customers have gone,’ she told him crisply, wishing she had taken the time to go to the bathroom before marching over here. Her brown hair was coming loose from the single braid she had plaited that morning, and she was sure her face was streaked with sweat. It shouldn’t matter how she looked as far as he was concerned, but it did. She couldn’t help remembering Melissa Mainwaring’s pale, exquisite face, and her long, elegant hand on his sleeve.

  He shrugged then, and stood up, immediately putting her at even more of a disadvantage. In her low-heeled shoes, she was little more than five and a half feet, and she had to tilt her head to look up at him.

  ‘What time do you close?’ he asked, and Samantha, who had expected him to ask how much he owed her, took a step backwards.

  ‘I—half-past five,’ she said, recognising that there was no point in lying about it. ‘Um—that’ll be two pounds twenty. One-fifty for the sandwich, and seventy pence for the juice.’

  She hated asking him for the money. She would have much preferred to say it was on the house. But Debbie would want to know why she hadn’t charged him, and it was too complicated to go into details.

  ‘What?’ He frowned. And then, realising what she was saying, he pulled a five pound note from the pocket of his leather trousers. ‘Here.’ He handed it over. ‘Now, will you have a drink with me, after you close?’

  Samantha was staggered. ‘Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I can’t.’ Samantha shook her head.

  ‘Why can’t you?’

  Samantha swallowed, and glanced behind her to make sure Debbie wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation. Then, lifting her left hand, she showed him the diamond solitaire Paul had given her. ‘I don’t think my fiancé would approve.’

  He expelled his breath then, and there was a distinct note of sarcasm in his harsh voice as he said, ‘I’m only asking you to have a drink with me. I’m not planning on taking you to bed.’

  Samantha’s cheeks flamed. ‘You wouldn’t get the chance!’ she retorted hotly, despising the shiver of excitement that ran through her at his words. Had Melissa Mainwaring been to bed with him? she wondered. Was that why he had treated her with such a lack of respect?

  ‘Perhaps not.’ He was disturbingly equivocal about her denial. ‘So—will you join me for a drink? Anywhere you like. You know the area better than I do.’

  An image of sitting in some smoky bar, with him beside her on an intimate banquette, flashed into her mind. She could already feel the hard strength of his thigh, as it brushed against hers, and smell the heady warmth of his breath, as it cooled her hot temple …

  With an effort, she thrust those thoughts aside, and struggled to appear indifferent. ‘I can’t,’ she said again, smoothing the note he had given her between fingers that were slightly damp. ‘I—er—I’ll get your change.’

  But when she closed the till he was gone. She was left with the two pounds eighty pence in her hand, feeling rather like a cheap tart who hadn’t given satisfaction. It didn’t help when Debbie came and looked over her shoulder either. ‘Some tip,’ she remarked, continuing on her way to clear the table. But Samantha felt like taking his money and throwing it into the street.

  The afternoon dragged. Once the lunchtime rush was over, they were never very busy, catering mainly for young mothers with toddlers, or older women wanting a break in the middle of their shopping.

  Debbie left at twenty-five past. Her bus was at twenty-five to six, and Samantha generally let her go in time to catch it. Otherwise, she felt obliged to drop the girl off on her way home, and that entailed a detour.

  Samantha was seeing Paul that evening, so she worked fairly speedily after the ‘Closed’ sign had been put in place. They were going to the new multiplex cinema to see a film Paul had told her about. He was picking her up from home at a quarter-past seven. Which should give her time to have a shower, and hopefully dispel the feelings of ambivalance that had hung about her all afternoon.

  She left the café at twenty to six, setting the safety alarm, and locking the door behind her. It was a cool evening, with drops of rain in the air, and she hoped it would warm up for Easter, which was only a couple of weeks away. Although some sturdy cherry trees were attempting to come into blossom, the east wind was deterring all but the hardiest growth. It was one of the chilliest springs Samantha could remember, and she wrapped her raincoat closely about her as she made a dash for her van.

  The van coughed, but it started at the second attempt, and she patted the wheel approvingly. The little Mini had never let her down yet, but there was no denying she needed a larger vehicle.

  And yet, she argued frowningly, waiting for a break in the traffic so that she could pull away, if she wasn’t going to continue with her outside catering, was there a lot of point? The Mini was quite capable of running her around town, and she seldom went any distance in the ordinary way unless she was with Paul.

  Unwillingly, the reasons why she was having second thoughts about the catering brought that man’s face to mind. She hadn’t forgotten what had happened at lunchtime. On the contrary, she was having the greatest difficulty keeping thoughts of him at bay. The trouble was, no matter how she might deny it to herself, she had been curious as to why he had taken the trouble to come and find her. And, although the idea that he might have some personal interest in her was too far-fetched to contemplate, she felt a quiver of excitement whenever she thought of him.

  ‘Get real, Sam!’ she chided herself angrily, as she braked for the lights at Park Terrace. What possible interest could someone like him have in an ordinary female like herself? She wasn’t chic; she wasn’t elegant; she wasn’t even particularly good-looking. The only advantages she possessed were that she had fairly long legs for a girl of her height, and that she was blessedly slim. Having said that, her breasts had always been a little too heavy, and her fine toffee hair had to be permed to give it any body. At present, it was in that crimped state of being neither straight nor curly, and for working she dragged it ruthlessly into a tight braid. Not exactly what he was used to, she was sure, even if he couldn’t compete with the rich Prince Georgio.

  She had guessed that that was why he hadn’t arrived at the party like all the other guests. It was obvious he and Melissa Mainwaring knew one another rather better than her wealthy fiancé was aware. But she guessed Miss Mainwaring would always have an eye to the main chance. And she had chosen security, instead of…what? Love? Samantha’s nose wrinkled. Lust, more like, she essayed scornfully, not liking where her musings were taking her. But she couldn’t prevent the image of the pair of them on a bed together from invading her troubled thoughts, and the knowledge of how that made her feel was like a bitter taste in her mouth.

  In consequence, she spent the evening trying to make it up to Paul. Not that he was aware of what she was doing. He just thought she was more affectionate than usual. Which made for a rather difficult scene, when it was time to say goodnight. He naturally assumed she would welcome his advances, and she was hot, and dispirited, when she eventually let herself into the house. Why couldn’t she be like other girls? she wondered, wearily, as she tugged a brush through her tumbled h
air. Of course, most of the girls she had gone to school with were married by now, so they didn’t have this problem. Nevertheless, she remembered how they used to talk before they got a ring on their finger. And her reactions to Paul bore little resemblance to their eager confidences.

  The phone rang soon after she got into work the next morning. And when she picked it up a voice she didn’t recognise said, ‘Miss Maxwell, please.’

  ‘This is Miss Maxwell,’ she replied, automatically reaching for her notebook. Her doubts of the evening before had been dispelled somewhat by the unexpected arrival of the sun, and she swiftly decided that if this was another catering assignment she would do it.

  ‘I understand you operate an independent catering service,’ the unfamiliar male voice continued, and Samantha dropped into the chair beside her desk. The tiny office was really just a storeroom, off the main serving area, but it did provide a little privacy, when the café was busy.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said now. ‘I have catered for a couple of dinner parties recently. What did you have in mind? Buffet catering is fairly standard, but more formal menus can be to your choice, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ The man was silent for a moment, and Samantha wondered if he was having second thoughts. But then, he added, ‘Perhaps it would be best if we could meet and discuss the arrangements. It is rather an important occasion, and I wouldn’t like there to be any hitches.’

  Samantha frowned. ‘Would this dinner party be in London?’ she asked, mentally cataloguing her plans for the rest of the week. Apart from being tied up during the day with the café, her evenings were reasonably flexible. As long as Paul didn’t take offence if she had to cancel any of his arrangements.

  ‘It’s—er—it’s a boardroom lunch actually,’ said the man, after another moment’s hesitation. ‘Does that present any problems?’

  ‘A lunch!’ Samantha was dismayed. It hadn’t occurred to her to consider that she might be invited to cater for a lunch. This was when she needed another assistant, she thought unhappily. There was no way Debbie could cope with the café single-handedly.