talked and laughed and enjoyed each other’s company, but he had never stared at her with that look of hot and glittering desire that he was turning on Bianca. Dinner ended, the other guests departed and Alix invented a headache to take her up to her room.
What happened after that was anyone’s guess. And Alix didn’t want to know. Nor, she found, did it help to tell herself that the ache in her heart was dented pride and no more. She was tired of having to face the fact of how easily Bianca could eclipse any charms she might have. It was hurtful to see someone she had liked apparently forget that she existed.
She knew the pattern, of course. Bianca’s little flings were unvarying. There would be flowers delivered, and long intimate phone calls, often while Alix was in the room, with Bianca lying on her chaise-longue, the receiver cradled against her cheek.
Alix couldn’t really be sorry that she was going to miss this particular episode in the long-running saga of Bianca’s love life.
And she thought, ‘I’d be frightened to let myself love someone in case she did the same thing to him. I might have loved Peter, for all she knew, but it made no difference. She still has to prove that she’s irresistible.’
As she queued at the box office of the theatre of her choice, Alix found herself wondering without too much curiosity what had happened to Peter. She could imagine, of course. One day, out of the blue, he would have found that Miss Layton was no longer accepting his calls. She wondered if he had accepted the situation with dignity, or made a scene. Not that it would have mattered. When it was over for Bianca, it was over, and there were no reprieves.
The disappointments of the day were still with her when she reached the box office window, to be told regretfully that all the seats had been sold, including the few returned tickets. And there was no prospect of any more cancellations.
Alix turned away ruefully. There were other theatres and other plays, of course, but this was the one she had set her heart on. She should have realised the necessity to book. She stood in the street outside the theatre, trying to decide what to do next. She would have dinner, of course, and then back to the house, she supposed, for an early night. Or she could always read the Clive Percy book, she thought with a glance at the parcel in her hand.
There was a small Italian restaurant just round the corner and she would eat there, she decided, deliberately removing from her mind the remembrance that Peter had taken her there.
Even though it was comparatively early in the evening, the restaurant was quite busy, its tables mostly occupied by couples. Alix was shown to a corner table, given a menu and offered an aperitif. She ordered a Cinzano and leaned back in her chair, a feeling of relaxation and contentment beginning to steal over her. Perhaps she wouldn’t have an early night after all. There was a musical she wouldn’t mind seeing—and there were cinemas. She would ask the cheerful proprietor if he had an evening paper and see what was on.
Aware that someone had stopped beside her table, she looked up with a smile, expecting that her drink had arrived.
Liam Brant said courteously, ‘Good evening, Miss Coulter. We meet again.’
Alix felt the smile freeze into something like a grimace. Without stopping to think, she said hotly, ‘You wouldn’t be following me, by any chance?’
His brows lifted. ‘You flatter yourself, secretary bird. As it happens, I often eat here. The food is good and the service is quick. I hope that reassures you.’
It wasn’t particularly reassuring to know that she’d just made a fool of herself, so Alix remained silent, staring down at the checked gingham tablecloth.
‘And what are you doing out of your gilded cage?’ the infuriating voice went on.
‘I was hoping to enjoy myself,’ Alix said coolly.
‘Until I showed up,’ he supplied.
She shrugged. ‘You said it—I didn’t.’
‘You didn’t have to. Has no one ever told you that your face is the mirror to your thoughts?’ To Alix’s annoyance, he drew out the chair opposite and sat down.
Stiffening, she said, ‘I don’t remember inviting you to join me.’
‘There’s nothing the matter with your memory—you didn’t,’ he returned. To the waiter who had just brought Alix’s Cinzano, he said, ‘A whisky and water, please. And we’ll both have lasagne.’
Alix’s fingers curled like claws round her glass. In a voice almost molten with rage, she said, ‘I did not intend to order lasagne.’
‘Then you should. It’s particularly good here. Or do you always play safe with steak or scampi wherever you happen to dine?’
‘Of course not,’ she began, then compressed her lips angrily. She was not going to be drawn into a discussion of her eating habits. ‘What I’m trying to say is that I’m perfectly capable of making my own choice from the menu, and I’d prefer to eat alone.’
‘Is it a preference you often indulge?’
She had expected him to leave, but he showed no signs of moving. And now the waiter was bringing his drink, a basket of freshly baked rolls, and a carafe of house wine. She could have screamed.
‘Well, why don’t you?’ he said.
‘Why don’t I what?’
‘Swear at me—throw your drink in my face—storm out. Whatever hostile fantasy you’re harbouring. I told you that you were transparent. Why don’t you follow the family tradition and go into films? You’d probably make your fortune.’
‘Because I’m quite content as I am, thanks.’ Alix made her face and voice impassive. Transparent, she thought, simmering inwardly.
‘That’s a dull thing to be at your age. And I don’t believe you.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Here’s to the other Alix Coulter, and may she soon stand up.’
‘There is no other.’ Alix did not respond to the toast, or drink from her own glass. She was afraid she might choke.
‘Oh?’ He gave her a long speculative look which covered the pinned-back hair, and the muted neutral colours of dress, trench coat and bag. ‘Then the girl I glimpsed on the stairs today was someone else—or a mirage, was she?’
Alix had forgotten the glimpse he had caught of her. She felt the colour rise in her face, and knew angrily that he had noticed it too and was faintly amused by it.
She said between her teeth, ‘Mr Brant, I came here for a quiet meal, not to be interviewed. I’m not interested in being copy for your next book any more than my—than Bianca is.’
He said softly, ‘I’ve no intention of writing a book about you, darling. Your cumulative experience of life could undoubtedly be covered in a short article, probably for a parish magazine. My questions are prompted by a normal male curiosity about why an attractive young woman insists on dragging about the place like a facsimile of Little Orphan Annie. I assume it is deliberate.’
‘I’m a working girl, Mr Brant, not some kind of starlet. Does that satisfy your curiosity?’
‘It doesn’t satisfy anything about me.’ His eyes never left her
