There is bread, and a couple of eggs. And I’m sure I’ve got packets of pasta meals in the cupboard.’
Sholto grimaced disparagingly. ‘Drink that up,’ he said, ‘and I’ll take you out for supper.’
Tara nearly spilled the coffee she was sipping. ‘You can’t! What about Averil?’
‘Averil is somewhere in the skies over Asia at this moment,’ he drawled, glancing at his watch.
‘Even so, what will she think about you spending the evening with me while her back is turned?’
‘I said supper,’ he reminded her mildly. ‘Nothing more. And Averil isn’t the jealous type.’
Tara lowered her eyes and took some more coffee. Averil, it seemed, was a paragon of all the virtues. ‘Will you tell her?’ she asked, realising that she’d tacitly agreed to go out with him.
‘Probably,’ he replied indifferently. ‘I certainly won’t be making a secret of it.’
And would Averil be as complacent about it as he obviously expected? Tara wondered. She hoped he wasn’t in for a nasty surprise.
When she’d finished the coffee he said, ‘Do you want to change?’
With a visible bruise on her back she’d better, Tara supposed. As he stood up, she gingerly brought her feet to the floor.
‘Take it slowly,’ Sholto advised, grasping her arm. ‘Do you need any help?’
‘No, I’ll be okay.’
‘Take your time,’ he reiterated, ‘there’s no hurry. Yell if you need me.’
She walked to the bedroom as he watched her, and firmly closed the door.
With a bit more care and attention this time, she managed to almost disguise the mark on her cheek, and the sea-green cotton dress she put on had sleeves and zipped up to her neck at the back, although the front was moderately low. She fastened her hair up with several pins and a Victorian tortoiseshell comb.
When she came out of the bedroom holding a small bronze leather bag, Sholto was lounging in the living room doorway, his arms folded, looking patient. He looked up and she saw a stirring in his eyes that took her back eight years, to when they’d first known each other. She paused, and he straightened, his hands falling to his sides. ‘Very nice,’ he said, his voice clipped.
He turned away to open the door for her, and they stepped outside.
His car, a sleek, roomy, dark blue vehicle, was parked on the road outside. He ushered her in and she subsided onto the smooth leather.
‘It smells new,’ she said as he got in beside her.
‘It is.’
Of course, she thought wryly.
‘I took the liberty of using your phone while you were in the bedroom,’ he told her. ‘As it’s Saturday night, I’ve booked a table.’
‘Did you have trouble?’
‘I tried a couple of places. This one is in Mount Eden. Okay?’
Mount Eden Road curved its way about the base of the dormant volcano and stretched along several miles to meet up with Mount Albert Road at a busy intersection. There were a number of good restaurants along its meandering length. ‘That’s fine,’ she said.
The restaurant was full, but not very large, and the service friendly and efficient. Perusing the menu, Tara began to feel hungry. ‘Pork with apricot sauce,’ she decided, and when Sholto suggested a bread basket selection to start with, she agreed.
‘Tell me about your shop,’ he invited as she nibbled on a piece of crusty herbed bread.
Her tension eased as she described how she’d been working in an antique shop for a time, and later bought one that sold mainly second-hand junk, gradually getting rid of the stock until she’d achieved a more upmarket image.
‘And that’s been successful.’
‘Very.’
He said thoughtfully, ‘I’d never pictured you as a businesswoman.’
‘I had some expert help from several people.’
‘Anyone I know?’ His eyes rested enigmatically on her while he absently tore apart a slice of olive bread.
Tara stiffened. She tried to sound casual. ‘Derek Shearer gave me some advice.’
Sholto’s strong fingers flicked some crumbs to the side of his plate. ‘Derek’s a first-class accountant.’
He wasn’t looking at her. Tara forced herself to relax. ‘Yes, he still does my tax return for me every year.’
The deep blue gaze pinned her suddenly. ‘I’m sure that’s not all he does.’
‘He’s a good friend. As you should know.’
‘Really? Perhaps that’s a matter of opinion.’
The air between them was charged, now. Tara’s hand convulsed on the napkin in her lap, crushing the starched linen. Her mouth was dry.
‘Who else...helped you?’ Sholto asked. He leaned back, making an effort, she thought, to appear nonchalant.
Tara swallowed. ‘Lots of people,’ she said vaguely. ‘You wouldn’t know them. The other shopkeepers have been good to me. It’s a small centre, and we all help each other when we can.’
Sholto nodded, and picked up his knife to spread a butter curl on his bread.
Over their main course he asked, ‘Where do you get your stock from?’
‘Various places. The antiques and collectables from second-hand dealers, opportunity shops, auctions, flea markets, the new things direct from craftspeople—woodworkers, potters, embroiderers. I even sell a few books—nicely bound old volumes and limited editions printed on a hand-operated press by a local couple. And quite a lot of imported goods from Asia and the Pacific Islands.’
‘I could help you there.’
‘I don’t need your help!’
His brows lifted at her sharpness, and she said, ‘Thank you.’
He gave a short, breathy laugh. ‘Touchy, aren’t you? Let me put it another way. Maybe we can do business together.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Sounding slightly impatient, he said, ‘How do you think I built up my business? I make it a policy never to pass up an opportunity. You retail Asian and Pacific goods—I import them. We might both benefit from—using each other.’
‘I thought,’ she said delicately, ‘we’d found that unsatisfactory.’
Sholto shoved his plate to one side,
