So he had looked up her file. Holly felt horribly flustered even as she told herself she’d known it all along. Jacques Querruel was the type of man who would want every fact at his fingertips before he talked about a job offer. But there were a hundred and one things one could never learn from the anonymous black print of a personnel file.
And this was borne out when Jacques continued, ‘Your mother’s choice of name or your father’s?’
‘Neither.’ She purposely didn’t elaborate, hoping he would take the hint and accept a change of subject when she continued, ‘It’s very kind of you to buy me dinner, Mr Querruel, but it really wasn’t necessary.’
The amber eyes moved over her face very slowly before he said, ‘Yes, it was. And the name’s Jacques.’ His gaze intensified, the thick black lashes adding to the piercing quality. ‘And if it was not your parents who gave you your name, then who did?’ he persisted softly.
‘The sister in charge of the maternity unit where I was taken after being abandoned.’ She didn’t try to soften the statement. “‘The Holly and the Ivy” was playing on the radio when they brought me in.’
He didn’t come back with any of the comments she might have expected and had experienced in the past on the rare occasions the circumstances of her birth had become known, but then she should have known he wouldn’t. He was not a flock animal. He merely expelled a silent breath before saying, ‘Tough start. Very tough.’
She nodded tightly. ‘Yes, it was.’
‘Did they find the woman who had given birth to you?’
She was glad he hadn’t called Angela Stanton her mother, because for a long time now she had understood the biological ability to produce did not make a mother. She nodded again. ‘At the point she gave birth to me she’d already got three children, all by different fathers; she didn’t want a fourth,’ she said evenly. ‘After she was traced she visited me once or twice, I understand, but that’s all. I contacted her when I was twenty-one and we met briefly; she was happy to tell me anything I wanted to know. My father was a married man she’d had a short affair with. She didn’t tell me his name and I didn’t ask. All her other children were put in care at some point and are in various parts of the country. There were two more after me.’
Her mouth was unyielding and set in a controlled line. Ridiculously he wanted to kiss the warm fullness back. The strength of his feeling shocked him and his mouth was dry when he said, ‘I am truly sorry, Holly.’
She shrugged, and he realised the gesture went hand in hand with the closed expression on her face. Both were too old for a young woman of twenty-five. ‘It happens,’ she said dismissively. ‘And lots of people suffer worse every day.’
The waiter arrived with two long fluted glasses filled to the brim with sparkling, effervescent liquid, and Jacques watched her face change as she looked up at the balding, middle-aged man, smiling her thanks. She hadn’t liked talking about herself. She hadn’t liked it at all. And she didn’t like him. He felt his pulse quicken and didn’t know if the feeling coursing through him was desire, pique, excitement or curiosity, or maybe a mixture of them all.
He took control of himself and the situation, raising his glass and touching hers in a toast as he said lightly, ‘To an excellent meal and a good bottle of wine when it comes.’
Holly laughed; she couldn’t help it. ‘That’s a little self-indulgent, isn’t it?’ she commented just as lightly.
‘Perhaps.’ He smiled at her, a social, easy smile. ‘But it’s to your benefit too.’
‘True.’ She considered, her head slightly tilted to one side. ‘All right, then. To the meal and the wine.’
The cocktail was delicious but she could feel the bubbles going straight to her head, and too late Holly told herself she should have eaten something earlier. She hadn’t had a bite since lunch and even then she had only nibbled at a sandwich, the events of the morning ruining her appetite. She took a firm hold on herself, putting the glass down and fixing the dark, handsome face opposite with what she hoped was an efficient, matter-of-fact expression as she said, ‘You mentioned a job proposition?’ She would have liked to add ‘Mr Querruel’ but he had insisted she call him Jacques earlier, and she couldn’t, she just couldn’t bring herself to do that. Consequently the question just trailed to a finish.
‘Later. You need to unwind.’
Did she? She didn’t think she did. In fact she thought it imperative she didn’t ‘unwind’, as he put it. She needed to have all her wits about her tonight. But he was the big boss and she couldn’t very well argue. She wriggled her bottom nervously; she was out of her depth here. Margaret was right; she shouldn’t have accepted this ridiculous invitation to dinner.
‘And stop looking at me as though you are little Red Riding Hood and I am the big bad wolf,’ Jacques said softly, his accent lending a resonance to the words that sent a little shiver right down her spine. ‘Tell me about Mrs Gibson instead, and your apartment. Are any of your other neighbours so colourful?’
‘It’s not an apartment, it’s a bedsit,’ said Holly after a fortifying sip of champagne. ‘There’s a big difference there, you know. And Mrs Gibson is just a dear old lady who’s marvellous for her age and a trifle eccentric. Perhaps more than a trifle.’
She slipped the wrap from her shoulders as she spoke and saw his eyes follow the movement, their light resting on the creamy skin before moving downwards to where the soft swell of her breasts were just visible above the bodice of the dress. And then he raised his eyes back to her hot face, not even trying to pretend he wasn’t looking as he said, ‘You look very beautiful, Holly.’
Perhaps it was his French accent, or the incredible lush surroundings and glittering occupants of the restaurant, or just the fact she was trying to hide how overwhelmed she felt, but Holly felt a nervous giggle escape before she could bite it back. This was so utterly, completely silver-screen material!
‘I have amused you?’ It was frosty and his expression had changed to one of chilled hauteur.
Oh, help. Holly took a deep breath. ‘Of course not.’
‘But something has.’
She stared at him across the small table covered in thick cream linen, a single white rose in a silver vase perfuming the air, and for no reason at all that she could name Holly suddenly rebelled against his autocracy. ‘It’s all this,’ she said before she had a chance to think too hard about what she was going to say. ‘It’s not real life, is it? Of course, it’s very nice…’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Oh, thank you.’ His voice dripped with sarcasm.
‘No, really, it is very lovely as a treat.’ She was making this worse, she realised helplessly. Much worse. And when all was said and done he had brought her out to this fabulous restaurant where everything was so gorgeous and special. It was just that everyone seemed to take themselves so seriously, she supposed. And she’d been fighting taking herself seriously—or anyone else for that matter—all her life. She didn’t like this last thought and so she filed it away to look at again later.
Silence had fallen. Jacques was sitting with his glass held loosely between his fingers as it rested on the table, his eyes on her flushed face.
Holly nerved herself to meet the amber gaze, which
