none for public opinion.’
‘A hundred and fifty years ago public opinion held that women were unfit to vote.’ His smile was ironic. ‘Most women believed that too. So, no, I don’t listen to public opinion.’
He had the sort of mind that stimulated her, made her want to sharpen her own wits against his. Stubbornly she kept silent as he poured the pale gold liquid into the flutes—lean, tanned hands, strong and deft, capable and expert…
‘We should drink a toast,’ Jake said. When she looked up sharply he handed her a glass with an enigmatic smile. ‘To the truth.’
Aline’s mouth twisted. “‘And the truth shall make you free”?’ she scoffed before she drank. Bitterness spiked her words as she set the glass down onto the polished wood table with an audible click. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Would you rather still be chained by comfortable lies?’ Jake asked sardonically. ‘You surprise me.’
Her eyelashes quivered but she kept staring into the glass. Tiny bubbles beaded and winked, rising in columns to the surface of the champagne. ‘Why?’
‘Surely you’d rather deal with a painful truth than live a lie.’ He waited, and when she said nothing he added deliberately, ‘You’ve always struck me as being as strong and fine as spun steel. Only weaklings hide behind convenient falsehoods.’
Aline lifted the glass to her lips again. Although some detached part of her brain conveyed to her that the champagne was dry and exquisite, it might have been sour milk for all the pleasure she took in it. ‘I’m gratified you think I’m strong,’ she said, folding her lips on the other words that threatened to tumble out and angry with herself for saying that much. Vulnerability brought predators prowling.
Sure enough, Jake’s glance sharpened. ‘But?’
She summoned a light, casual shrug and a cool smile. ‘Sometimes it’s the only thing a person’s got going for them, and steel is utilitarian stuff.’
His brows met over the blade of his nose. ‘The world runs on utilitarian stuff,’ he said dispassionately, watching her with unsettling curiosity. ‘Steel, coal, oil, trees felled to make paper, metals dug from the ground, food grown in the earth. Are you a closet romantic, Aline, yearning for moonbeams?’
‘No,’ she said with a brittle lack of emphasis, tight shoulders moving uneasily under his intent golden scrutiny. She thought to sip some more champagne, but put the glass down untouched. The last thing she needed was a head clouded by bubbles.
The glimmer of starlight on the sea gave her an opportunity; she walked across to uncurtained windows and gazed out. ‘What a lovely spot you have here.’
It was a clumsily obvious ploy, but to her relief he let her get away with it. Ten minutes later they were discussing a controversial takeover that had been exercising the minds of financial journalists for the past week.
Usually Aline could do this sort of thing without thinking, but tonight Jake’s trenchant, perceptive comments kept prodding her brain out of neutral; by the time dinner was ready she realised with sick shame that she hadn’t thought of Michael for at least an hour.
At first she ate the scallop and noodle salad automatically, hardly tasting the sophisticated lime juice and sesame oil dressing, but soon the bite of chilli and fresh ginger and the smooth richness of the scallops shook her tastebuds awake.
‘That was delicious,’ she said with real appreciation when she’d finished. ‘You’re not just a man who can cook—you’re a superb cook.’
‘Thank you,’ he said laconically.
Aline watched as he collected the plates and took them into the kitchen. The combination of food and champagne and impersonal yet exhilarating conversation, the strange novelty of being cosseted and cared for, both stimulated and lulled her into a languid mood.
Jake was dangerous. When all she’d wanted to do was hide for the rest of her life he’d forced her senses and mind into enjoyable alertness. Simply by being himself—a compelling, attractive man—he’d broken through the bitterness of betrayal.
Heat surged from deep inside her, stinging her skin, clouding reason and logic in fumes of sensation. Shakily she got up and walked across the big room, pushing back the folding doors to gulp in cool air, moist from the sea, lush with the scent of greenery. She didn’t want to feel, to cope, to recover; for once in her life she longed to hide and howl at her emptiness.
When Jake came in from the kitchen carrying a couple of serving dishes she asked with tight formality, ‘Do you mind if I leave the doors open?’
‘No,’ he said, setting the dishes down. He straightened and stood watching her as she came towards her.
Something about his stillness, the metallic light in his golden eyes, the controlled lines of his sculpted mouth, chased ripples of unease across Aline’s skin. Lightly, steadily she said, ‘I was suspiciously close to nodding off, and I don’t want to miss any of this superb dinner.’
His smile was enigmatic. ‘Then sit down and eat it.’
An hour later she sighed, ‘No, no coffee, thank you. That was a wonderful feast. Where on earth did you learn to cook—or were you a chef in a previous incarnation?’
‘I couldn’t afford to eat out when I was at university,’ he said, getting up and holding out his hand to her. ‘So I learnt how to make a decent meal. I like to be good at what I do.’
Oh, she believed him. At everything he did, she thought, trying to banish an image of him making love, bronzed skin gleaming…
‘Who taught you?’ She let her hand lie in his, adding with a brittle smile, ‘The current girlfriend, I suppose.’
‘A restaurant.’
He let her go, but before she had time to feel bereft he supported her elbow in an easy grip, startlingly warm through the fine silk of her sleeve.
Shamed by the untamed frisson of need zigzagging through her, she said, ‘A restaurant altruistic enough to give lessons in gourmet cooking to penniless university students? If only I’d known about it I might be able to cook something more sophisticated than scrambled eggs.’
‘If you can make a good fist of those you can cook anything,’ he said, steering her towards the seating area. ‘I started in the kitchen as a part-time hand and gradually rose through the ranks. By the time I finished my degree I was allowed to cook the odd dish if the chef was in a good mood and there weren’t too many customers that night.’
Something—probably the second glass of champagne she’d been unwise enough to drink—persuaded her to confess, ‘I can produce very basic meals, but that’s all.’
‘Yes,’ he said austerely, ‘you look as though you survive on salads. Don’t you enjoy cooking?’
She shrugged, collapsing into a sofa that faced the wide open doors. ‘My sister was the domestic daughter. She could conjure a fantastic meal from some stale cheese, a couple of lettuce leaves and a spoonful of chutney, so she went to gourmet cooking classes while I collected degrees. I was going to follow my father into his business.’
He
