her mouth twisting as she noted that soap and towels had been laid out in the gleaming bathroom next door.
Cat found herself backing out again, almost on tiptoe, as if she’d entered a church in the middle of some service. Absurd, she told herself as she crossed the living room again, deliberately letting her shoes clatter noisily on the wooden floor.
She found the kitchen at the other end of the passage. It had a full range of fitted units and appliances above and below the granite work surface, but all the drawers and cupboards were unused, and the refrigerator was empty.
It’s just a very elegant shell, Cat thought bleakly, with no clue about who it might belong to. In fact, it doesn’t look as if anyone’s ever lived here at all, least of all Liam.
Perhaps he had flats like this across London, she thought, biting her lip. Blank, transitory boxes where he entertained his women.
No, she told herself abruptly. That’s nonsense. After all, this was all my idea, not his. And I was the one who specified it had to be neutral territory too.
Well, he’s done me proud. This is about as utilitarian and neutral as it’s possible to get.
What did I expect, anyway? A heart-shaped bed with black silk sheets and mirrors on the ceiling? A fur rug in front of a blazing fire?
She sighed. So, it was hardly a love nest, but at least she could make it rather less of an echoing void.
She took the car up to Notting Hill Gate. In the supermarket she bought staples, like bread, milk and eggs, then added bacon, smoked salmon, fresh raspberries, cream, coffee and a couple of bottles of champagne. She also bought an armful of lilies and carnations, and a tall dark green vase to put them in.
Back at the flat, she stocked the fridge neatly, then arranged her flowers, which she set in the centre of the dining table. By the time she left their scent was already beginning to permeate through the warm air, making the place a little less bleak.
But it’s still nothing like home, she thought as she got back in the car—and stopped herself right there with a gasp. Because that was the whole point—wasn’t it?
And now she simply had to make the best of it, she told herself. And shivered.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE car Liam sent for her was long, dark and powerful, and punctual to the second. Which was just as well, Cat thought as she handed her overnight case to the driver, because her nerves by this time were stretched to screaming point.
Her chauffeur was a polite, taciturn man, in a neat grey suit with a peaked cap. Cat longed to ask him if he regularly delivered Liam’s women to him, but didn’t dare. In any case, the glass partition between him and the back of the car, where she sat almost on the edge of her seat, remained firmly closed.
What I really want is someone to take my hand and tell me everything’s going to be all right, she thought, a bubble of near-hysteria rising in her throat. And I’ve never been that naïve. I’m still the Cat that Walks by Herself. I have to be.
She hadn’t realised how much she was hoping that Liam would be there ahead of her, waiting to take her in his arms, until she unlocked the doors and found the flat still empty.
She drew the heavy cream curtains across the windows, and after a brief hesitation lit the gas fire in the marble hearth, telling herself it felt chilly now that darkness was here. Or was she just nervous?
Stagefright, she thought with a grimace, sitting back on her haunches and watching the flames flicker blue.
She took her case into the bedroom and extracted the new housecoat. It moulded her slenderness like a second skin, the skirts flaring into soft folds at her hips and falling open, mid-thigh, to reveal her slim legs. The unrelieved black emphasised the creaminess of her skin against the dipping neckline.
She studied her reflection in the long mirror, trying to see herself with his eyes.
It was undoubtedly seductive, she acknowledged restively, but was it rather too obvious—especially against this minimalist background? Well, only time would tell.
And it was time that Liam was here. She needed his reassurance—the flare of passion in his eyes—the hunger of his mouth.
There was no television, no stereo or radio in the living room. Nothing, not even a magazine, to alleviate the tension of this endless waiting.
She was beginning to wonder if he’d changed his mind—or even if he’d planned all this as a cruel joke to punish her for daring to damage his male pride—when she heard the outer door open and slam shut, and his footsteps on the stairs.
She’d intended to be stretched on the sofa, cool and casual, her smile offering a welcome that was his alone. Instead, she found herself jumping to her feet, her clenched fists buried in the folds of her gown to conceal the fact that they were trembling.
He came slowly into the room, moving almost wearily, the smoky eyes guarded as they surveyed her.
‘Good evening.’ His voice was quiet, courteous, but it did not sing with desire, and he didn’t come across to her as she’d hoped. ‘I apologise for my lateness.’
She swallowed. ‘It—it doesn’t matter. You’re here now,’ she returned uncertainly. She paused. ‘You look tired.’
‘I am,’ he said pleasantly. ‘But not too exhausted to pay you the attention you deserve in bed, if that’s what concerns you.’
‘It isn’t,’ she denied swiftly. ‘I simply thought you might like some coffee—or something to eat. I—I brought food.’ She tried a smile. ‘I make good scrambled eggs.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Liam drawled, his expression suddenly cynical. ‘But I didn’t come here for your domestic abilities, my sweet, in case you’ve forgotten. I’m not hungry.’ He shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it over the arm of the sofa. ‘Frankly, I’ve had a bitch of a day, but a hot bath should improve my mood considerably.’
He walked towards the bedroom, loosening his tie as he went, then paused. ‘But you could bring me a drink,’ he added softly. ‘If you wanted. Shall we say in ten minutes?’
She nodded jerkily. ‘Of course. Straight whisky?’
His brows lifted in faint mockery. ‘You have a good memory.’
‘But then,’ she said, ‘I’ve had little to do but remember.’
‘And nor have I,’ he said, his gaze reassessing her. Lingering without softening. ‘And I haven’t forgotten a thing.’ His smile was tight. ‘So—ten minutes, then.’
She’d noticed a good single malt among the bottles on the sideboard. She poured a generous shot into one of the tumblers, and sat down to wait.
Thumb-twiddling, she thought, her mouth twisting, had never been her favourite form of exercise, although she supposed she could always make herself useful and put his jacket on a hanger.
My God, she told herself in self-derision. He’s been here five minutes, and I’m turning into his girlfriend.
She
