the lunchtime snarlups, and feeling the need to clarify her position, Cassandra endeavoured to make light conversation. What he had said earlier, about his reasons for ringing her, didn’t seem credible somehow, and linking her hands together in her lap, she introduced the usual topics of weather and traffic.
His responses were monosyllabic as he concentrated on negotiating the busy streets, but once they had a clear stretch of road, he cast a lazy glance in her direction.
‘You knew I’d ring, didn’t you?’ he remarked, disturbing her anew. ‘What did your mother-in-law tell you?’
Cassandra bent her head. ‘Oh, only that you’d rung. As you said, she thought you were a client. Only most people ring the studio.’
‘Most men?’
Cassandra looked up indignantly. ‘Most clients,’ she corrected him shortly, and Jay inclined his head.
‘But you did know?’
Cassandra schooled her features. ‘How could I?’
‘I don’t believe you’re that naïve,’ he responded, his voice low and disruptive. ‘But—–’ he shrugged, ‘we’ll play it your way, if it suits you.’
Cassandra didn’t know how to answer him, so she didn’t try. Instead, she tried to guess where he was taking her, and what she was going to tell Chris when she got back.
Jay eventually turned the powerful sports car into the car park of a hotel north of Willesden. It was not a hotel Cassandra was familiar with, but judging by the number of cars in the parking area, it was a popular eating place.
A cocktail bar gave on to a small dining room, and mentioning that they could get a drink at their table, Jay preceded Cassandra into the restaurant. They were shown to a table at the far side of the room, overlooking the sunken garden at the back of the hotel, where wilting plants surrounded a murky rock pool.
A waiter provided menus, and Jay asked Cassandra what she would like to drink.
‘Oh, just a dry Martini, please,’ she answered politely, and he ordered a gin and tonic for himself before allowing the waiter to depart.
‘So,’ he said, when they were alone, ‘do you feel happier now?’
Cassandra fingered the red napkin in front of her. ‘I don’t know this place,’ she replied, without answering him. ‘Do you come here often?’
Jay lay back in his chair, regarding her with sardonic eyes. ‘I guess Liz Lester has been talking,’ he remarked. ‘What did she tell you?’
‘Not a lot.’ Cassandra kept her tone light, and forced herself to look at the menu. ‘What do you recommend? I rather fancy scampi. How about you?’
‘Food’s not a fetish with me,’ he responded easily, putting his menu aside. ‘So long as it’s reasonably cooked, a steak will do fine.’
Cassandra nodded, glad of the diversion from more personal matters. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I like steak, too. But I think I’ll stick to the fish. It sounds delicious.’
‘Good.’
His acquiescence was indifferent and she was glad when the waiter brought their drinks, and she was able to use her glass as a barrier between them. His eyes were too penetrating, his perception too shrewd; and she looked at the other diners in an effort to avoid looking at him, in case he could read her thoughts as well.
‘I suppose you do a lot of entertaining,’ he remarked at last, his voice lower, more persuasive. ‘In the course of your—work, naturally.’
Cassandra turned her lovely eyes in his direction. She had the distinct suspicion there was an insult there somewhere, but for the life of her she couldn’t understand why he should be baiting her in this way.
‘I—we—do entertain, occasionally,’ she agreed, shaking her head when he offered her another drink. ‘But the company is very small yet. We don’t have an unlimited expense account.’
‘No.’ He rested his arms on the table, cradling his glass between his palms. ‘And there’s just the two of you—you and this young man, Chris Allen?’
‘Yes.’
The waiter came to take their order, and after he was gone again, Jay continued his catechism: ‘Have you known him long? Allen, I mean?’
Cassandra shrugged. ‘About seven years, I suppose. I knew him before—before I was married.’
‘Ah—–’ Jay absorbed this with a curious expression. ‘Perhaps you should have married him. You might have been—happier.’
She held up her head. ‘Maybe,’ she responded, her tone a little chilly now, and as if realising she was beginning to resent his interrogation, Jay smiled.
‘I guess you’re wondering why you agreed to have lunch with such an ignorant swine, aren’t you?’ he suggested ruefully. ‘Forgive me, but—–’ he paused, ‘perhaps I’m not used to such sensitive companionship.’
Cassandra hesitated. ‘I should have thought that was patently untrue,’ she declared steadily, and his lean mouth took on a humorous twist.
‘So I was right—Liz has been talking. Am I allowed to say anything in my own defence?’
She sighed, putting down her glass, not quite sure whether to take him seriously or not. ‘You don’t have to defend yourself to me, Mr Ravek,’ she stated carefully. ‘The way you conduct your affairs is no concern of mine.’
It sounded abominably smug, but he seemed not to take offence, and the arrival of the waiter with their soup prevented any further intimate conversation. Much to her relief, the next twenty minutes were taken up in this way and Cassandra was free to concentrate on the meal and evade any further searching questions. But, inevitably, after she had refused a dessert, coffee was served, and gaining her permission to light a long, narrow cheroot, Jay resumed his cross-examination.
‘Suppose,’ he said, attracting her unwilling attention, ‘suppose I wanted to make it your concern; the way I conduct my affairs, I mean.’ His eyes narrowed, dark and sensual between the thick lashes. ‘Does it matter to you how many women there’ve been in my life?’
‘I—why—–’ Cassandra controlled her colour with the greatest difficulty. ‘Mr Ravek—–’
‘Jay!’
‘—are you trying to insult me?’
‘No.’ He rested his elbows on the table. ‘Why should you think that?’
Cassandra moistened her lips. ‘Perhaps I’m out of touch—–’
‘But not out of reach?’
‘Mr Ravek—–’
‘Mrs Roland?’ His eyes were mocking her now. ‘You’re an intriguing lady. I can’t make up my mind whether you want to go to bed with me or not, and if the answer is no, what the hell am I doing here?’
Cassandra
