Liberty smiled, her gaze including her father as she said, ‘You’re just what he needs. It’s high time he had a little happiness.’
‘Thank you, Libby.’ Joan had taken her hands and now pressed them, tears glittering in her eyes. ‘I can’t tell you what it means for you to say that.’
It set the tone for the evening. By the end of the first course of a meal which was truly superb, Liberty found she had totally relaxed and was enjoying herself. She had forgotten—or perhaps, as she’d only been a child when she had first known Joan, she hadn’t realised—that Joan had a terrific sense of humour along with a wit that was positively wicked at times. Within a few minutes of being in the other woman’s company Liberty could perfectly understand why her father was so captivated by her. And she was the absolute antithesis of Miranda.
It was as Liberty was finishing the last mouthful of her baked scallops with cured back bacon and thyme that her attention was drawn to a table a short distance away. She didn’t know quite what had attracted her gaze—maybe it was because the four people about to be seated had caused something of a minor stir, one of the women being a well-known supermodel—but as her mildly enquiring eyes met grey-granite she felt the impact down to her fragile but wildly expensive silver sandals.
Of all the people to see tonight—Carter Blake! As he smiled at her she managed to force a fairly normal smile in return, glad of the three or four tables between them as her heart pounded so hard she was sure he would have noticed if he’d been a little nearer. The contact only lasted a moment or two and Carter was the one to break it, turning to the elegant woman at his side and saying something as they all sat down.
Liberty took a hefty gulp at her wine before she became conscious that her father—in the gregarious way he had with people—was speaking in an undertone to a man at the next table who had also been looking across the room. ‘Should we all know who they are?’ David Fox asked mildly as the head waiter appeared at Carter’s table with a distinctly ingratiating smile.
The other man grinned at him, clearly amused. ‘The woman in the red dress is Carmen Lapotiaze,’ he said softly, ‘the famous—or perhaps it should be infamous—model, and the other woman is an actress, quite well-known.’
‘Not by me,’ David Fox said cheerfully. ‘And the men?’
‘The good-looking brute with Carmen is Carter Blake; he owns this place and half of London. The other guy I don’t know.’
‘He owns this nightclub?’ It was Joan who was speaking now and she leant forward interestedly. ‘That explains all the scurrying about of the staff then.’
The other man nodded. ‘He’s one big fish,’ he said quietly. ‘Rumour has it he has his thumb in umpteen pies; not bad for a man who started with next to nothing a decade or so ago, eh? That’s if all the gossip about him can be believed, of course.’ He smiled again before turning to the woman with him, a voluptuous brunette who positively dripped diamonds.
‘Well, ladies, looks like we chose the right night for a bit of excitement.’ David beamed at Joan and his daughter, clearly pleased with himself.
Liberty didn’t want to puncture his bubble but she felt she had to say something. ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ she said with a smile to soften her words. ‘The man who ran into me—I’ll give you three guesses who it was, but his name begins with B and ends with E.’
‘Never!’ Her father stared at her. ‘You don’t mean…’
‘And he was driving the most beautiful Mercedes,’ Liberty said ruefully. ‘Or at least it was until my little car had the temerity to jump out in front of it.’
‘Oh, Libby.’ Her father had clearly told Joan about the accident because now the other woman put her hand on Liberty’s arm. ‘Was he okay about it? He isn’t going to be awkward, is he? We can leave if you feel uncomfortable.’
‘No, not at all,’ Liberty said hastily. ‘He was very good, actually.’ Apart from making her feel two inches tall. Which she had probably thoroughly deserved, she admitted silently, but that didn’t make it any easier to take. ‘And we couldn’t possibly leave without dessert anyway,’ she added brightly.
‘I do love my puddings.’ Joan pulled a face. ‘As is pretty obvious. I’d love to be as slim as you but even from a small child I’ve been this shape.’
‘You’re a perfect shape,’ her father cut in before Liberty could say anything. ‘Don’t you dare change a thing about yourself, you hear me? I can’t abide women who exist on a lettuce leaf all day. My surgery is full of them all saying they’ve got stress or nerves or whatever, when what they really need is a few suet puddings and a dumpling or two.’
‘Oh, David.’
Joan was giggling now, but even as Liberty joined in their laughter she found she was envying the older woman with all her heart. To be loved utterly for yourself by your partner in life—how many women were ever lucky enough to find that? Her work brought her into contact with masses of women who had been dumped for a younger model by their husbands, and it worked the other way too. Her own mother was proof of that. She had made up her mind years ago that true love was a fantasy, something which was warm and comforting and wonderful in novels and fairy tales, but not part of the real world. But now, looking at her father and Joan, she was forced to admit there could be exceptions to the rule. But then her father was special; she’d always known that.
Liberty was very careful not to let her eyes stray to that other table while they continued with their meal, but she found herself draining three glasses of wine for Dutch courage. It was delicious wine—everything was delicious—but as she stood up to go to the ladies cloakroom before their coffee and brandy was served, she realised it was also very potent.
Aware that her vertiginous sandals were more than able to tip her over if she didn’t concentrate hard, she made her way to the cloakroom with decorous sedateness, every muscle in her body under rigid control. Wouldn’t he just love it if the dopey lamebrain—as she was sure he thought of her—ended up in a pile at his feet, proving she was just as dizzy and empty-headed as he suspected, she told herself bitterly.
Once in the luxurious marble surrounds she gazed about her. She remembered the awe she’d felt on her first visit here and now this was compounded by the knowledge that Carter Blake owned it all. He must be loaded, utterly loaded. Was Carmen Lapotiaze his lover?
She caught at the thought, angry with herself for speculating even as she answered; of course she would be. Probably one of many. Sexual magnetism had literally oozed from the man and there had been a wealth of experience in that rugged face. A tiny shiver curled down her spine and she resolutely banished all further conjecture. Carter Blake was absolutely nothing to do with her and his sex life even less so!
She fiddled with her hair and applied a touch of lipstick before leaving the cloakroom, delaying the moment she had to re-emerge even as she berated her cowardice. She hated to admit it, but every mouthful of food and sip of wine had been accompanied by an almost painful awareness of the tall, dark figure sitting some distance away, and even when she had been conversing with her father and Joan her ears had been tuned in for the laughter which emanated from his table now and again. That was bad enough, but it was all the more galling because he had, no doubt, put her out of his mind immediately after that one brief polite smile. Certainly she didn’t think he’d looked her way again.
Her toilette completed, she shut the clasp of her evening bag with a little snap and squared her
