‘I don’t drink spirits.’ He looked at Martine’s glass. ‘Is that mineral water? I’ll have the same, thank you.’
‘I’d forgotten you don’t drink,’ Charles said, made a face.
‘Like your assistant here, I like to keep a cool head,’ Bruno Falcucci drawled, and Martine gave him a flicking glance. Oh, very funny! she thought.
Charles ordered the drink, adding, ‘And bring the menus, Jimmy, will you? Now, Bruno, what sort of business brings you to London?’
‘Banking,’ the answer smoothly came.
Charles laughed. ‘Of course. Is it confidential? Shall we change the subject?’
‘I can’t talk in detail about it, I’m afraid. You may read about it in the financial Press some time, but not yet.’
‘Well, how long do you plan to stay? Can you tell us that?’
‘A week, maybe two. Then I might take a holiday—fly on to Greece, perhaps, or even as far as the Caribbean. I want to relax for a while, unwind, get some sun before I go back to work.’
‘You have an amazing tan already!’ said Charles. ‘Don’t you think so, Martine?’
She gave another brief glance in Bruno Falcucci’s direction; let her lids droop indifferently over her eyes again. ‘Amazing,’ she said offhandedly.
She felt Bruno looking at her closely, considering her rich auburn hair, the fine-boned face with the warm, curved mouth and fierce green eyes, before running his gaze down over her body in arrogant appraisal.
Her flush deepened and she felt the back of her neck prickle.
‘Where do you go for a holiday?’ he asked her.
She shrugged, reluctant to answer.
‘Oh, Martine doesn’t like hot countries,’ Charles answered for her. ‘Like most redheads, her wonderful skin doesn’t like too much sun. But we had a terrific time in Sweden last summer, didn’t we, Martine? And Switzerland was fun a couple of years ago.’
‘Especially the après-ski, no doubt,’ Bruno drawled.
He was making no attempt to hide what he was thinking, his gaze flicking from her to Charles and back again, glinting with cynicism.
He suspected her of having an affair with Charles, she realised. He couldn’t be serious! Charles was almost old enough to be her father!
Oh, he was still very good-looking in a weary way, but he had no energy, his hair was thinning and turning silver, his elegant, fine-cut features had a distinct look of strain. She was deeply fond of Charles, she felt sorry for him; but that was all. She resented Bruno Falcucci’s speculative stare, the cool cynicism in his eyes.
The head waiter arrived. ‘Have you chosen yet, sir?’ he asked Charles, who looked at the others.
‘I’m ready to order—how about you two?’
Martine nodded. So did Bruno.
She chose melon and sole with a salad; Bruno chose melon, too, with prosciutto, followed by a steak, also with a salad; and Charles ordered melon followed by an omelette with a salad. He ate almost nothing these days. He would probably just pick at his food.
While they waited to be told their table was ready Charles and Bruno talked about the international banking situation. Martine listened intently, absorbing with a faint dismay the fact of Bruno Falcucci’s swift, hard intelligence. Charles knew what he was talking about, but he was like a machine running on half-power lately—he kept fading, losing interest, missing vital points. She began to suspect that Bruno could run rings around him.
There was no doubt about it. The man was potentially lethal. And she had a sinking feeling that Charles wouldn’t listen if she tried to warn him, would just laugh at her.
The head waiter came back, smiling. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Mr Redmond...’
‘Shall we go in?’ suggested Charles, rising. Martine got to her feet. He put a hand under her arm in a gallant gesture, to which she submitted, smiling at him, her eyes affectionate. He was always chivalrous, an old-fashioned man in many ways; she liked that.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Bruno Falcucci’s face: jet eyes watching her with sardonic amusement, mouth wry. Martine’s smile stiffened into anger. It was going to be an ordeal to sit through a meal with that man across the table. She wished she couldn’t read his mind so clearly, but it was as if his thoughts leapt across the table to her—or maybe he was actually allowing her, or willing her, to pick up what he was thinking!
Yet why should he? She frowned, letting Charles steer her into the dining-room. Her imagination was really working overtime, surely? She was building Bruno Falcucci up into some sort of bogeyman!
She was seated between the two men at the table, but from then on she turned all her attention, and her body, towards Charles, practically ignoring the other man except when she had no option.
Bruno Falcucci leaned back in his chair, a brooding presence, watching her out of narrowed eyes, physically dominating the circle they made: herself, Charles and him, around this table, with his wide black-clad shoulders, his deep chest and hard face.
Charles dominated the talking, though, and was too absorbed in his favourite subject, international finance, to be aware of the silent duel going on across the white-damask-covered table with its spray of dark red roses in the centre. The dining-room was shadowy, and a softly shaded lamp gave them exactly enough light in which the table glittered with crystal glass, silver cutlery and fine bone china and their faces glowed, now in shadow, now in light, like shifting masks.
It was towards the end of the meal that Charles finally asked Bruno Falcucci the question Martine knew he had been planning to put to him.
‘How would you feel about leaving your present job, Bruno, and coming to work for us in a rather more senior position?’
If Bruno was surprised he didn’t show it. There was a beat of time when he just sat there, as if absorbing the possibilities, then he calmly said, ‘That’s a very flattering offer, Charles. I would need to know precisely what you had in mind, of course, and I’d need time to think it over, but in principle I’m certainly interested.’
Charles beamed. ‘I hoped you would be. You wouldn’t regret the decision if you accepted, Bruno, I promise you that. You could have a splendid future with us, far more exciting than anything you have in prospect at the moment. Ours is a family bank and you are my only male relative.’
He shouldn’t be stating the situation quite so frankly. He was betraying the weakness of his position, Martine thought, watching Bruno Falcucci closely, her green eyes sharp and hostile.
He was watching Charles, and his face was a polite mask. Martine would have given a good deal to know what he was thinking, whether he was excited, triumphant, elated. He gave no clues.
‘I’ll get Martine to put together a proposition for you, setting out all the terms,’ Charles promised as he called for the bill. ‘And after you’ve had time to digest the contents, we can talk it over. I’m going
