sensual touch of her skin when she had laid her hand across his, Piers silently conceded that he was both intrigued and more than a little attracted to his son’s girlfriend. Emma Robards had the kind of chutzpah he admired but she was surely on a lost cause if she was hoping to win Lawrence’s undying gratitude for what she’d dared. Piers knew his own son and it didn’t take much imagination to work out that when Emma had returned home empty-handed—with no promise of his help, either financial or otherwise—gratitude would be the last thing on Lawrence’s mind. He was like a child who’d received every Christmas present he’d ever dreamed of, but still expected there to be one more. No, if Piers wasn’t mistaken, the daring Miss Robards would have received nothing more than the raw edge of his son’s tongue for her troubles. He almost felt sorry for her. What was she doing with a loser like Lawrence anyway?
Piers swore harshly beneath his breath. It had become all too easy to berate his own flesh and blood. Still, he probably deserved it. Especially after this last little stunt, sending his girlfriend to do his dirty work. Well, this time Piers would pay him back and make him think twice about resorting to such a stunt again. He would help him one last time, he concluded, but in return he wouldn’t hesitate to seduce Emma Robards. He’d show his irresponsible son that when it came to matters of strategy, he’d better sharpen his game if he wanted to play with the big boys. As he warmed to the idea, he drove his hand impatiently through his hair one last time then stalked determinedly from the room. In the stunning entrance hall with its black and white tiles and crystal chandelier suspended from the high ceiling, Piers grabbed up his coat from the hall-stand and went out into the cold, rainy night to hail a cab.
‘Sorry, Liz. I don’t know what’s the matter with me this evening.’ As Emma stooped to pick up the pieces of broken glass from the kitchen floor, Liz Morrison—friend and co-owner with her husband, Adam, of the bistro known as The Avenue—dropped down to help her. Her smooth forehead wrinkled with concern when she noticed that the younger woman’s hands were trembling.
‘What’s wrong, my love? Has someone upset you? Those lads are a bit rowdy out there tonight but they’re celebrating a friend’s promotion. Did one of them say something to you?’
‘No, it wasn’t them. I’m just feeling a little on edge, that’s all. Don’t worry.’ Getting to her feet, Emma briskly deposited the broken glass into a nearby bin. ‘It’ll pass.’
‘Want to go home early? I can get Louise to stay a bit later to help out.’
‘Thanks, but I’ll be fine. Really.’
But even as she automatically recited the words, Emma knew she was nowhere near fine. Not after that horrible incident with Lawrence this evening, and the earlier more embarrassing one with his father. It hurt when illusions were destroyed and tonight she’d discovered that Lawrence Redfield wasn’t the friend that she’d thought him to be. He’d clearly only used her friendship to advance his own ends, and now all Emma wanted to do was curl up into a tight little ball and make the world go away for a very long time until she felt right again. Only she couldn’t do that. She had a life and a job to do, and Liz Morrison had been too good to her for Emma to let her down just because her feelings had been hurt. Smoothing down her neat black skirt then adjusting the matching velvet ribbon on her pony-tail, Emma forced a smile, picked up a tray of glasses to take out to the bar, and headed for the double doors that led into the restaurant.
Liz’s hand on her wrist took her by surprise.
‘You need a break. Everyone else has taken holidays except you. You haven’t even marked out dates on the calendar. I don’t flatter myself that work here is so compelling you can’t tear yourself away, so what’s up, Emma? You can talk to me, can’t you?’
Liz Morrison was like a surrogate mother as well as a friend. Her daughter, Fleur, had gone to school with Emma, and when Fleur departed to Paris to start her career as a very junior dress designer in one of the big fashion houses, Emma had become even more like a second daughter to Liz and Adam. Looking into her concerned, attractive face now, Emma lifted her shoulders and dropped them again.
‘I made a fool of myself, Liz, that’s all. I’ll get over it. And as far as holidays go—well, I just haven’t sorted anything out yet.’ Only that wasn’t strictly true either, Emma thought disconsolately. The plain fact of the matter was that she wasn’t in a financial position to take a break. Although she got paid holidays, Emma relied heavily on tips to boost her income, and with her grandmother’s operation coming up and all the improvements that needed to be made to her house if she was to return home there afterwards, she needed as much money as she could get. The local authority would only give her a grant for some very basic improvements—the rest, family were supposed to supply. And, as Emma was the only family Helen Robards now had contact with, the responsibility fell to her. Not that Emma minded—far from it. Her grandmother was the one person in all the world who loved her unconditionally and Emma would do anything in her power to bring a little more ease to her life.
‘Well, you need to make taking a holiday a priority. Even if all you do is stay at home and potter. You’re looking tired. You spend most of your time out of work caring for your gran. I know she’s been seriously ill but it isn’t right that you should be totally responsible for her care. I’m not a fool, Emma. I know she needs a lot of care and that it’s draining you, both physically and financially.’
It was impossible to prevent the wave of self-conscious heat that flooded her cheeks at Liz’s perceptive comment. She did feel drained. But what could she do about it when there was no one else to share the burden of her grandmother’s care?
‘I won’t pretend it’s not tough sometimes but she’s my only family, Liz. Yes, I’d love a holiday but right now it’s not an option. Not even remotely.’
Liz smiled in understanding. ‘I’m not getting on to you, Emma, love. I’m just concerned. Still worried about Gran’s operation?’
Emma nodded, yet couldn’t help smiling at the thought of her grandmother’s determination to get better. ‘She’s tough though, you know? She’ll be OK. And if it makes you feel any better I’ll book some time off in a fortnight. That’s a week before the op, and I can be with Gran and keep an eye on her before she goes into hospital.’
‘Well, if either of you needs anything—anything at all—you must let me know. Promise?’
‘Promise. But you’re too good to me, you know that?’
‘Someone’s got to look out for you, love. Now, you’d better go and help Lorenzo in the bar or he’ll be in here screaming for those glasses any second now!’
An hour later, Emma glanced up from stacking glasses behind the bar and froze. Staring back at her from the doorway where he had just come in from the cold, Piers Redfield’s burning blue gaze closed the distance between them as though they stood head to head. She almost dropped another glass in her bid to extricate herself from the intensity of his examination, glancing helplessly at the handsome Lorenzo as he stood by her side humming along to the music that was playing softly, but unable to find words to elucidate her distress. What on earth was he doing here? Had Lawrence sent him? Had Piers decided to press charges or something equally horrendous because Emma had had the audacity to inveigle her way into his private office?
Finally realising they had another customer and before Emma could find her voice, Lorenzo dashed out from behind the bar to greet the imposing-looking man in the damp trenchcoat, speaking to him enthusiastically in his drawling Italian accent as Emma looked on, aghast. Then, shaking Piers’s hand and taking his coat, he led him to a secluded table for two in one of the dimly lit recesses with their dark oak seating. He laughed at something Piers said as he bent his head
