couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. Even though his common sense told him that if Melissa wanted to come back, she would hardly write him a letter telling him so, he needed the proof. Damn her, he swore savagely. What could she want now?
Victor riffled through the small pile of business letters and advertising material occupying a silver tray placed on a polished, semi-circular hall table. The letter, with its unmistakable scent of rose petals, was at the bottom, and although he was impatient Matthew didn’t miss the significance.
‘Can I get you some tea, sir?’ Victor enquired, as his employer slid his thumb beneath the seal, but Matthew shook his head.
‘Nothing, thanks,’ he said, heading back towards his study. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m hungry.’
Victor looked disappointed, but Matthew couldn’t help it. He had no idea why Melissa might be writing to him, and the last thing he needed was Victor peering metaphorically over his shoulder. To emphasise this point, he went into the study and closed the door, before withdrawing the letter from its envelope. Then, noticing that his hands were shaking, he uttered another bitter oath.
Indifferent to the somewhat austere familiarity of his surroundings, Matthew rested his shoulder-blades against the door as he scanned the hand-written missive. Melissa’s handwriting had never been particularly legible, and in his present agitated state it was difficult to read the scrawling words. But patience eventually won out over stress, and he was able to translate the gist of the message.
Amazingly, it was an invitation. Melissa was writing to ask if he would come to a party she and her fiancé were giving, to celebrate their engagement. Apparently, although the announcement had already been made formally at the dinner her parents had given in their honour, this party was to be a much less formal affair, for close friends and acquaintances.
The air rushed out of Matthew’s lungs in a harsh whoosh. For a few moments, he stared at the letter in his hand, as if expecting it to self-destruct in his fingers. And then, tossing it savagely on to his desk, he bent forward to grip the scarred mahogany with clenched fists. My God, he thought disbelievingly, Melissa actually thought he might attend her engagement party! The idea was ludicrous! And insensitive to the point of cruelty.
It took him several minutes, during which time he wished he had asked Victor to fetch him a bottle of Scotch, to recover his composure. He should have known the letter was not going to be good news. Melissa wanted her revenge, and by God, she was determined to get it.
An expletive burst from his lips, and he straightened abruptly, his jaw clenching as he examined how it made him feel. For the first time since she had walked out on him, he felt a healthy sense of resentment. She was deliberately turning the knife in the wound. And she obviously expected him to refuse.
Poor Georgio, Matthew thought grimly. He doubted he knew Melissa had invited her ex-lover to their engagement party. What an irony! But what exactly was Melissa’s game?
Of course, it was possible she wanted him back. Matthew’s stomach muscles tightened at the thought. But not on the old terms, he acknowledged, with strengthening cynicism. She had made that plain enough when he’d implored her to stay.
So what was she trying to do? Play one lover off against another? He gave a bitter smile. It might be amusing to find out. There had always been a latent sense of masochism in their relationship.
‘BUT why are you doing this?’ Paul Webster regarded his fiancée with impatient eyes. ‘I thought the café was doing well enough. Why do you need to supplement your income by acting as someone’s skivvy?’
‘It’s not like that.’ Samantha Maxwell endeavoured to keep her temper. ‘But you have to understand that this is a new departure. And one which, if it’s successful, could prove really exciting.’
Paul snorted. ‘Exciting? Working every hour God sends!’
‘Not every hour,’ replied Samantha reasonably. ‘Just an odd evening here and there. And it’s not as if you’re going to miss seeing me. You have to visit your clients, and I’ll visit mine.’
‘Well, I think you’re crazy!’
‘Yes, I know.’ Samantha pushed a strand of toffee-coloured hair behind her ear and tried to concentrate on the shopping list in front of her. But it wasn’t easy with Paul baulking her at every turn, persisting in regarding her job as a secondary occupation.
‘I mean,’ he went on, as if sensing he was pushing her too hard and attempting to be persuasive, ‘it’s not as if you’re a trained chef, or anything. You’re an English graduate, Sam. You could be a teacher. Instead of which, you’re playing at housewife in someone else’s kitchen.’
Samantha’s nostrils flared as she looked up. ‘I am not playing at housewife,’ she retorted sharply. ‘And, whether you like it or not, I enjoy what I do. You can’t seem to understand that getting this branch of the business going is a real adventure. And it could be just the beginning of a whole new career.’
‘Making other people’s meals!’
‘Catering—for people who don’t have the time, or the inclination, to do it themselves.’
‘As I said, playing housewife in other people’s kitchens.’
‘If you want to put it that way.’ Samantha was growing tired of the argument. She looked reflectively around the empty café, with its Austrian blinds and gingham tablecloths. ‘I’d have thought you’d be glad I was making such a success of the business. After all, it was your idea that I open this place.’
‘Yes. Because you didn’t know what you wanted to do, when you left university, and the lease was available. If you hadn’t voiced some crazy notion of starting a sandwich-round, I doubt if I’d have suggested it.’
‘But you did,’ Samantha reminded him, straightening a silver condiment set, and adjusting a fan of scarlet napkins. ‘And I’m very grateful to you. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Only—well, Mum and Dad were keen that I went to university, and they’d worked so hard to send me there, I couldn’t disappoint them. I’m not sorry I went. It taught me a lot. Not least, what my priorities are, and what I hope to achieve.’
‘Success in business!’ Paul shook his head. ‘And all this time I thought you wanted to marry me.’
‘I do.’ Samantha turned to him then, her honey-pale features taut with worry. ‘But it’s not the only objective in my life. I need a career, Paul. I really do.’
Paul sighed. ‘And you think branching out into personal catering is the answer?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t done enough of it yet to find out. But meeting Jenny like that was a godsend. And the contacts I made at her dinner party are priceless!’
‘But they’re all in the West End! I don’t like the idea of you driving all that way home in the dark!’
‘Oh, Paul!’ Samantha tilted her head to one side, and then, abandoning her defensive stance, she crossed to where he was sitting, and perched on his lap. ‘You don’t have to worry about my safety. I’m a perfectly good driver, and
