car. Somewhere in her mind a penny dropped.
Standing in front of her was a walking, talking information source on every aspect of the lifestyle of a wealthy single man. Unfortunately with a messy and very expensive divorce in his past he was unlikely to see the funny side of an article on landing a rich bachelor, no matter how tongue-in-cheek it was meant to be. She’d have to find an underhand way to tap the information out of him.
He looked back up at her, a questioning frown knitting his brows in response to her sudden beaming smile.
‘Would you like a slice of toast?’ she asked him.
Ten minutes later they were seated on stools next to the granite counter. Alex watched Jen finishing her second slice of toast. A few crumbs clung to her full lower lip and he found himself staring at them until the movement of her hand as she brushed them away snapped him out of it. He gave himself a brisk mental shake. He was meant to be keeping on her good side, not ogling her. Mindful of Mark’s warning to keep her sweet, he’d only agreed to the toast to appear friendly after snapping at her about Viveca. He surreptitiously pushed the remains of it to one side of his plate and took a large slug of coffee.
He looked up at her to see that she’d finished eating and was now staring at his wrist. She leaned forward on her stool to get a better look.
‘That’s a lovely watch,’ she said.
He smiled distantly. What was she up to now?
‘Thanks.’
‘Would you mind if I took a closer look?’
Before he could answer she’d jumped down from the stool and taken a step closer. She took his wrist in her slender hands and turned the watch this way and that, examining it.
‘Cartier …’ she murmured.
He realised that she was the perfect height for him right now, standing next to him as he sat on the stool. This close he could see the big blue eyes, the frown touching her brows lightly. The curve of her top lip above the full pink lower lip was adorable. There were fine tendrils at the nape of her neck where she’d pulled her light brown hair up from her shoulders into a messy ponytail. He was reminded suddenly of the last time he’d been at eye level with her—last night, with her slender wrists in his hands, lush body pinned beneath him on the bed, close enough to kiss her with one short movement of his head. Heat sparked on his skin at her touch and seemed to pool deep in his abdomen.
This was not a good sign. Less than four days since he’d sworn off women and he was mentally wondering what she might taste like. He debated for a moment if he should have ignored Mark’s advice and evicted her, anyway.
He tugged his wrist away sharply.
She looked up in surprise, her hands left empty in mid-air.
‘I’ve got a conference call in twenty minutes that I really ought to be preparing for,’ he lied.
She took a step back, still eyeing the watch.
‘OK, not a problem. I’m planning on going out, anyway, so you can have the place to yourself.’
Honestly, she had more front than Blackpool. Acting as if she was the one doing him the favour when it was his own damned apartment.
She tossed his cold toast in the bin and stacked their plates together in the sink.
‘Can you recommend somewhere good for lunch?’ she asked, her back to him. ‘I need to get a bit of background on the area. The kind of people who hang out here, what they wear—that kind of thing.’
He shrugged. ‘Depends what you’re after. Coffee and a sandwich? Or something a bit more substantial? What do you want to spend? Some places are pretty exclusive and expensive.’
She turned back from the sink in time for him to see the sudden shadows in her blue eyes.
‘Not that I’m implying you’d be out of place there,’ he said, wondering why he was worried about hurting her feelings.
‘Why don’t you just tell me where you would go?’ she said. ‘If you were hypothetically going out for lunch in South-West London.’
He thought for a moment, trying to come up with somewhere she might enjoy.
‘La Brasserie,’ he said. ‘French-style place. It’s very popular—decent food.’
‘Great, thanks!’
‘Don’t thank me until you’ve tried it. We might not like the same kind of food.’
She left the room. Just as he was insisting to himself that she was having zero effect on him he realised he was watching the graceful way her legs moved in the slim-cut jeans. He’d have to find a way of getting her out of here.
The globe lights, the ceiling fans twirling above her, the framed French posters on the walls and the marble-topped bar made stepping into La Brasserie feel like stepping into a little corner of Paris in the middle of London. Strings of white fairy lights and Christmas greenery added a warm festive touch. At a corner table, Jen thought it really was the perfect place to while away an hour or two people-watching.
She glanced at the menu and drew in a quick breath at the prices—even after her internship they never failed to amaze her. The coffee shop back home in Littleford did a knockout shepherd’s pie for a fraction of the price of the main lunch menu here. Then again, the residents of Littleford wouldn’t know what to do with a place that served frogs legs in white wine and parsley, Coquilles St Jacques—whatever that was—lobster and steak tartare.
When a waiter in a pristine white shirt and black waistcoat arrived to take her order she chose only coffee and a pain au chocolat, with a pang of regret that she couldn’t afford to sample the full deliciousness of the menu. She needed to eke out her money big-time if she wanted to frequent places like this and actually look as if she belonged. The group of young women having a girly lunch at the table opposite made her feel totally invisible. She was kidding herself, thinking she could pass herself off as one of them in her High Street wardrobe. She needed designer everything. And on the money she’d scraped together that was going to be no mean feat.
The women were glossy without being in your face. Hair loose and natural, with gentle highlights, perfect smiles, less-is-more make-up and not a hint of orange fake tan. Clothes impeccably cut. Fur seemed to be the accessory this winter. No outfit appeared to be complete without a bit of dead animal attached to it somewhere.
So this was the world her father inhabited, while she and her mother were an inconvenience he’d written off twenty-four years ago just by opening his wallet. She didn’t think she’d ever had a stronger feeling of being on the outside looking in. Jen felt plain, boring, and like an impostor with her mousy brown hair and her cheap handbag. And the worst of it was that none of that should matter—not to her. But still it did.
Wasn’t the whole point of her article to look at this world of luxury from the perspective of an ordinary High Street girl? Her fresh eyes would enable her to pick up on all the little things that stood out. Like the way people air-kissed both cheeks as a greeting. Jen had never done that in her life.
She was furious with herself. She was an investigative journalist—a professional gathering background for an article. She should
