completely out of my mind.’
She looked at her reflection with disfavour. Even with the aid of Lynne’s cosmetics, she still looked—ordinary. And no one was ever going to believe she was Jake Radley-Smith’s girl of choice, even for five minutes, let alone an entire evening.
But at least her favourite dress—a silky, olive-green wraparound, knee-length with cap sleeves, and a long sash that tied on the hip—was wearable. Probably because, unused during her time in France, it had been the last thing she’d taken from the wardrobe and had been packed on top of everything else.
She could only hope it would build her confidence once she had it on, as it usually did. Except that nothing was usual about this particular evening.
She had seriously considered making a dash for it, but Mr Radley-Smith would have seen her passing the living-room door, and she didn’t relish the idea of him making a dash for her in return.
Like being stalked by a black panther, she thought with a sudden shiver.
Besides, in practical terms, if she was about to lose her job then she really needed the money he was apparently prepared to pay her for doing him this favour, plus the place to stay. Although the thought of being beholden to him grated on her severely.
The incident in France had been a nightmare, but some instinct she hadn’t realised she possessed warned her that any involvement with Jake Radley-Smith had the potential to be infinitely worse.
And she couldn’t rely on her lack of glamour to be her safeguard any more, as she’d found to her cost.
She sighed softly, almost despairingly. But some cash in hand would be more than welcome, she reminded herself. In fact, it could be essential.
And, although she might not like parties, she knew what to do at them—grab a soft drink from the tray and become invisible in some corner until it was time to leave.
She was retying her sash in a bow, her fingers having unaccountably turned into thumbs, when he knocked on the door.
‘How much longer are you planning to be?’
The dossier was building up nicely, she thought grimly. Too many girlfriends. Far too manipulative. Not enough patience. Plus an excessive amount of—what?—charisma? Sex appeal? She wasn’t sure what to call it. Only that she was afraid of it, and would be extra-careful in consequence.
‘I’m ready,’ she called back, slipping her feet into the waiting high-heeled pewter sandals, and picking up the small bag on its long chain that matched them and her cream-fringed shawl.
She’d expected some comment when she emerged from the bedroom, but he just flicked her with a glance and nodded abruptly.
Not that she wanted his approbation. God forbid. But still…
She said, ‘I didn’t know what to do with my hair.’ She touched its shining fall, reaching, straight as rain water, to her shoulder blades with a self-conscious hand. ‘Whether or not I should try to put it up, perhaps.’
‘It looks fine.’ He walked to the door. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Whose party is this?’ she asked, eventually breaking the silence as she sat beside him in the black cab he’d summoned with such irritating ease. ‘Or is it strictly on a need-to-know basis?’
‘It’s being given by the boss of Torchbearer Insurance, a major client of ours,’ he said after a pause.
‘And is your agency doing a good job for them?’
‘The best,’ he nodded.
‘Then you should be among friends,’ she said. ‘So why trail a strange girl along with you?’
His mouth twisted. ‘Call it—a different kind of insurance,’ he said. ‘Personal liability. And perhaps I should ask you a few questions before we get there—for a start, how old are you?’
‘Twenty.’ Telling him straight seemed better than some coy evasion.
‘You look younger.’
So the carefully applied make-up hadn’t supplied one atom of sophistication after all, she thought, and stifled a sigh.
‘And what do you do for a living—when you’re in work?’
‘I’m a secretary,’ she said. ‘I do agency work here in the UK and Europe. I’m good with computers, and I speak French and a smattering of Italian. I also book restaurant tables, make excuses on behalf of my employer, send flowers, organise travel and collect dry-cleaning.’
‘My God,’ he said. ‘You sound like a wife.’
She played with the chain on her bag. ‘Doesn’t Lynne do all that for you?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But she’s actually going to be a wife, probably thanks to my specialised training.’
Somehow the outraged gasp she’d intended turned into a giggle. ‘I wouldn’t let her hear you say that.’
‘Neither would I,’ he said, and grinned back at her. ‘So, what happened to the job? Was the restaurant overbooked? Did the flowers fail to arrive?’
Her throat tightened; she didn’t look at him. ‘There was a—misunderstanding which couldn’t be resolved.’
There was a pause, then he said drily, ‘I see.’
No, she thought, you don’t. But it’s still too new, too raw for me to talk about. And, even if the memory is still capable of making me feel sick to my stomach, you are the last person in the world I could ever confide in anyway.
She hurried into speech. ‘Maybe you should tell me how I’m supposed to address you this evening. I can hardly go on saying—“Mr Radley-Smith.”’ She hesitated. ‘Do I call you Rad, as Lynne does?’
‘That’s for working hours,’ he said. ‘In my more private moments, I prefer Jake. So make it that, please.’
She bit her lip, thinking the last thing she wanted was to be part of any of his private moments. She said tautly, ‘I’ll—try to remember.’
And when all this is over, she thought, I’ll try even harder to forget.
The party was being held at the Arundel Club, just off Pall Mall. The entrance hall was like a grand foreign church, complete with classical statues, and Marin, self-conscious about the clatter of her heels on the wide marble staircase, wondered if she ought to tiptoe instead.
At the top of the stairs, they turned left into a wide corridor carpeted in dark blue. There were alcoves at intervals along the entire length, some with a small, gilded table displaying either a large and elaborate piece of antique ceramic or a flower arrangement, while others were occupied by small armchairs upholstered in gold-and-ivory stripes.
Jake Radley-Smith indicated a door on the right-hand side. ‘The women’s cloakroom,’ he said laconically. ‘You might want to check your wrap.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I probably should.’
