sounded sarcastic. “But then, even tycoons have to eat sometimes, don’t they? Or do you live on vitamin pills these days?”
Paul was silent for a moment and she heard him flicking over the papers on his desk.
“Make up your mind,” she said abruptly.
“All right,” he said slowly. “I suppose I can make it.”
“Don’t put yourself out,” she exclaimed heatedly.
He sounded almost amused. “Still the same old Karen,” he remarked cynically. “Will one o’clock at Stepano’s suit you? I have a table there.”
“Admirably,” she replied dryly, and rang off.
As she lit a cigarette she found she was trembling again. This would never do. She hated herself for becoming so emotionally involved. After all, it was only a luncheon appointment, not a visit to the torture chamber.
She spent a long time deciding what she would wear. She needed something smart but not too dressy. Certainly nothing to make him imagine this was anything other than a business engagement. On the other hand, she wanted to look her best, if only to show him how well she was managing alone.
Black was the best idea, she decided at last, and chose a close-fitting black suit which suited her very fair colouring to perfection. The neckline of the suit was low and round, and she added a string of pearls, which he had bought her for their first wedding anniversary, to complete the ensemble. She never wore a hat and her thick, straight hair needed no adornment. It tip-tilted slightly at the ends and was so soft and silky that it always looked attractive. Paul had always admired her hair, the jagged fringe straying across her wide brow and framing her piquantly attractive face.
She studied her face in the mirror for a moment when she was ready, wondering whether she had changed. Her best features were her eyes, framed by thick black lashes that needed no mascara. Her eyes were greeny-grey and very widely spaced, while her nose was small and slightly retroussé. Her mouth was full and passionate and much too big in her estimation. However, she sighed, she was as she was and nothing could change that.
She took a taxi to Stepano’s. The traffic in London at lunchtime was such that to take her own car would have been a futile effort. Besides she hated driving in the rat-race of vehicles, always conscious of the swarm of cars on her tail, ready to pounce if she made a mistake.
Stepano’s was a massive, glass-fronted restaurant in Oxford Street. Karen had never been inside before, but as she entered she was greeted by a white-coated waiter who escorted her with reverence to Paul’s table. Paul had not yet arrived and Karen ordered a dry Martini and lit a cigarette.
As she sipped her drink her eyes surveyed the large dining-room with its gleaming damask cloths, shining silver and hot-house flowers. The clientele matched their surroundings, over-indulged, expense-account fed men and elegantly jewelled women. There were some younger people, but even they were all too obviously bored by too much of everything. However, she was aware that she too was being studied and discussed. After all, this was Paul Frazer’s table and she was not the woman with whom he had been photographed so frequently lately. She wondered if any of them recognized her as Paul’s ex-wife. She felt quite amused as she imagined their comments if they did.
At five past one, the swing glass doors opened to admit, Paul Frazer. He was dressed in a camel-hair overcoat, which he removed and gave to the waiter who hovered at his side. Underneath he was wearing a charcoal grey lounge suit of impeccable cut, and he looked bigger and broader than she remembered. Even so, he did not look to have an ounce of spare flesh on him. He was big-framed and muscular, and as she watched him thread his way through the tables to his own, she was intensely conscious of the almost animal magnetism about him which had so thrilled her in the old days. He walked with a lithe, easy grace for such a big man, passing a word here and there with acquaintances he knew. His hair was still as thick and black as ever, only lightly touched with grey at the temples, which served to give him a distinguished appearance. He was still as lazily attractive as ever and at thirty-seven looked the well-dressed, assured business tycoon that he was. If he had grown a little more cynical with the years that was only to be expected of a man with his wealth and position, who knew that money could buy most things he wanted.
He reached the table and seated himself opposite her with a brief nod. Conscious that they were the cynosure of all eyes, Karen flushed and looked down at her drink.
“Well, Karen,” he murmured lightly, “you haven’t changed much. Still as beautiful as ever, and as talented too, I hear.”
Karen looked up at him and for a moment his dark eyes held hers. Then with a rush she said:
“Thank you, Paul. You haven’t changed, either. Are you still working hard, too?”
He half smiled in a mocking manner. “I was, until I was dragged to a certain luncheon appointment.”
Karen looked indignantly at him. “You need not have come,” she stated abruptly, colouring.
“Oh, really? With you flinging innuendoes left, right and centre? Besides, you set out to make me curious and you succeeded. That should please you.”
The wine waiter appeared by his side and he ordered himself a whisky and another Martini for Karen. After the wine waiter had left, the head waiter arrived for their order, and Paul took the menu and ordered for them both as he had always done in the past.
When his whisky had been supplied together with Karen’s Martini and they were waiting for the first course to be served, he said:
“No retaliation yet. I felt sure you were thinking up some vitriolic reply while I studied the food.”
“Don’t be so clever,” she retorted, disliking his mocking treatment of her. “I ought to be congratulating you on your engagement, but I won’t.”
“Thank you, all the same. Was that what you wanted to talk about?”
Karen gasped. “I told you it had nothing to do with us,” she snapped angrily.
Paul shrugged, and iced melon was served. Karen felt singularly unhungry, which was quite unusual for her, and only toyed with the food.
Paul ate his and then said: “Well, come on, then. Don’t keep me in suspense.”
Karen pushed her plate away.
“My … my mother asked me to speak to you,” she began slowly.
“Oh. I see. And how is Madeline these days?” He swallowed the remainder of his drink. “I keep meaning to visit her.”
“She’s all right,” replied Karen, glad of the brief diversion. “I’m sure she’d be overjoyed to see you. You were always her blue-eyed boy, in a manner of speaking, of course.” This last because she knew his eyes were a very dark grey so as to appear almost black at times.
“Good.” He raised his eyebrows. “Well … go on.”
Karen reluctantly continued. “It’s really about Sandra that I wanted to speak to you,” she said.
“Why? Does she need money or something?”
“No,” retorted Karen shortly. “Money; the be-all and end-all of everything to you, I suppose.”
“It
