Roberta Leigh - Love in Store

by Roberta Leigh

  This was so for the next three days, and in order to show herself she did not care, she went out with Peter who, to her amusement, spent the best part of the evening talking about Jackie.

  "She seems to be thoroughly enjoying herself," he grumbled, "and she makes no mention of coming back."

  "I doubt if she will," Samantha said. "In her last letter, she wrote and said she's tempted to live there permanently."

  "She'll never do that." Peter was vehement to hide his disquiet and Samantha made a mental note to write and tell Jackie that her plan to make Peter miss her might not fail after all.

  On Thursday she woke with a dismal feeling which the dark dress she was obliged to wear did nothing to relieve. It was an anachronism for the Farrell staff to wear such dismal clothes and she vowed to discuss it at the next Board meeting. But part of her mood was due to the boredom of working in the Millinery Department, and this was yet another subject she intended to discuss with her co-directors. With store space at a premium, she was sure the area given over to hats could be far more lucratively employed. It was surprising no one had realized it. Zachary was so aware of everything that went on in the store that… Darn it, she wasn't going to think of Zachary again. He was most obviously not thinking of her!

  Slowly the morning dragged by. Two dowagers occupied her for part of the time: trying on countless numbers of hats before eventually buying their usual shapeless pull-ons, which Samantha privately labeled tams. A couple of giggling teenagers wandered in—no Farrell's customers these, but eager-eyed youngsters looking to see how the other half lived. Once again it made her think what an anachronism this department was. Morosely she wandered over to one of the counters and set an elaborate concoction of satin and straw on a stand. Did anyone wear a hat like this these days, other than the ultrasmart Miss Bergerac? She swung around as her name was called by another of the saleswomen, who pointed to the telephone on the head vendeuse's desk.

  Irritated by Larry's persistence, she picked up the receiver and said a sharp hello, almost dropping the instrument as she heard Zachary's voice.

  "If you aren't too busy, Samantha, how about joining me for some coffee and sandwiches?"

  She glanced at her watch and saw it was nearly her lunch hour.

  "I would like that." Her voice was shaky and she forced herself to draw a deep breath. "Do you want me to come up right away?"

  "Why not? You know where my office is?"

  She rushed to the washroom to make herself tidy, wishing again that she was not wearing drab black, and not noticing how the dark color enhanced her fairness and the slenderness of her body. She was faintly pink with anticipation when she finally knocked on the door of his room. She had only been here once before—on her fatal first day—and it seemed far longer than two months ago. She sighed. Two months and Uncle John had wanted her to work here for a year. Somehow she knew she would not be able to stay here for that length of time. Besides, it would not be necessary. She was sure she could work out a compromise with her shares, and then leave Larry and Zachary to run Farrell's by themselves.

  But would she be happy to return to her old way of life? Unless she did, her mother would have to find another agent. It might be as well to visit several of the London galleries while she was here and see if she could find someone she liked and trusted to take over from her. Then she would be free to do as she wished: either to return to Ireland and find another job—which meant she could still live at home—or to remain in London.

  Zachary rose to greet her and, seeing him coming toward her, his shoulders blocking out the light which shone from the window behind him, she suddenly knew why she did not want to leave England. She was in love with Zachary. But she hardly knew him. How could he have become so firmly entrenched in her heart that she could not bear the prospect of not seeing him again?

  "You're very pensive, Samantha." Zachary led her to a chair beside his desk. "I hope you didn't mind me asking you to join me here for lunch? But my next appointment is at two and it doesn't give us time to go to a restaurant."

  "I don't mind at all," she assured him. "Though I don't think it's good for you to remain in your office all day."

  "Actually I prefer it. I dislike eating out. At least here I can relax without people watching me.

  "I thought you liked being the center of attention."

  "I can see that one day I will have to give you a resume of my character."

  "I look forward to that," she smiled.

  "How about this evening then? Again it's short notice, I'm afraid, but if you're free…"

  She knew she should say she was busy but because she wanted to go out with him, she nodded.

  "That's settled then. I'll pick you up when I leave here."

  "I would like to go home and change first."

  "You look fine to me." He saw from her face that he had said the wrong thing and looked so wry, that she laughed.

  "You can't honestly say I look as nice as I did on Saturday or even Sunday."

  "You look different," he agreed. "But you are one of the few girls I know who looks good in black. Most women look dreary in it."

  He sat down beside his desk and signaled her to pour out the coffee. A plate of assorted sandwiches stood beside the silver pot and there were two small jugs of milk and cream.

  "You're deceptively efficient," he went on, following his own train of thought. "I've been surprised by the way you have settled down and the suggestions you have made to the various departments."

  "You know about them?"

  "Madame Vonet has been to see me twice," he said dryly. "She is quite a fan of yours."

  "Only after she found out who I was!"

  His teeth flashed in a smile. "You must at least give her credit for turning her coat so quickly!"

  Samantha bit into a sandwich. It was as tasty as it looked, but only a bite-sized helping. "This isn't much of a lunch for you," she commented.

  "Meaning big strong men should eat big strong meals?"

  "Exactly."

  "I prefer to lunch sparingly. Then I can enjoy a leisurely dinner. Which reminds me—do you have any preference in restaurants?"

  "Not really. Where do you usually go?"

  He paused, then said slowly, "I'd like to take you somewhere new. How early can you be ready?"

  "By half past six. You must let me change first," she insisted.

  "I'll give you a lift home."

  "Fine," she said easily and offered him another sandwich.

  Two cups of coffee later, she stood up to leave, thinking he would appreciate a chance to relax on his own before his afternoon appointments began. She noticed how tired he looked and knew it must be a great responsibility to run a store like this. Still, he had Larry to help him.

  "Why don't you and Larry split the work more evenly?" she asked bluntly.

  "We are too diametrically opposed," he replied. "I'd spend half my time trying to undo the decisions he had made, and he'd be doing the same with mine! Anyway he's far better than I am at taking care of the personnel. I don't get on with people."

  "I don't believe that. I'm sure you could get on with anyone if you wanted to."

  "Perhaps I don't want to," he said humorously. "Anyway, think of the work I do that Larry couldn't do—even if he were willing to try. And don't say it's because I won't let him!"

  "Why should I say that?"

  "Because many people do."

  "Then they don't know Larry," she stated. "He isn't as interested in Farrell's as you are."

  "You are perceptive." Zachary's voice was toneless. "Or has he said anything to you about it?"

  She hesitated. "I know he's more keen on racing. He's working on some invention that will save gasoline."

  "He's been working on that for a couple of years," Zachary said. "That's why he resents any time he has to spend at the store. It's one of the areas of contention between us. He'll never succeed if he is half-hearted. If he really believes in that invention of his, he should go
all out on it."

  "He'd need a lot of money," she replied. "It would mean selling some of his shares in Farrell's."

  "I know."

  "Surely you would hate him to do that?"

  "Not if he sold them to me."

  Her eyes widened. "But that would mean giving you control."

  "So what?" Zachary looked and spoke impatiently. "If he doesn't give a damn about Farrell's—and I assure you he doesn't, apart from the money it brings in for him—then why shouldn't he sell out to me?"

  "No reason at all," she said, with a growing awareness of the Tightness of what he was saying. "And it would be marvelous for me, too. Then I wouldn't be the lynch pin any longer. I'd be free."

  "No one is ever free." He came toward her. "Even a bird has to return to his flock."

  "A cuckoo doesn't!"

  "You're no cuckoo. You would never have to steal a nest, either. You will always find one of your own."

  Smiling, she skirted her chair to go to the door. He moved at the same time and his arm brushed against hers. A tingle went through her and she glanced at him. They were close enough for her to see how distinctively curved his eyebrows were and how thick the lashes that bordered his light gray eyes.

  With no hint of what he was going to do, he leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. Instinctively she responded, and he put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her closer still. He kissed her a second time, his lips warmer, the pressure more insistent. She wanted him to go on kissing her and, because she was dismayed by the thought, she pulled away from him.

  "You choose the oddest times to kiss a girl," she said lightly.

  "The time rather chose me." His voice was very deep. "You are rather like water, Samantha. Before one can guard against you, you have penetrated everywhere."

  She would have liked to ask him what he meant, but knew from the way he walked to the door that he would not answer her. Remembering she would be meeting him later, she was content to bide her time.

  In the event Zachary did not take her home, sending her a message by his secretary that he was unavoidably detained in a meeting and would collect her at six-thirty. In a way she was glad. She was tired and grimy and did not wish him to see her until she had bathed and changed. It was strange to feel such a sense of excitement and to know it was caused by Zachary, the last man in the world with whom she had seen herself falling in love.

  No longer did she try to deny it. How could she when her whole body trembled at the mere thought of him. But why now, after two months? Why not the first time they had met? She remembered the antagonism he had aroused in her on that first occasion and, with hindsight, saw it had been an instinctive reaction, caused by fear. Even then she must have sensed the power he would eventually have over her. She saw now that in going out with Larry she had hoped to bring herself to Zachary's attention. Well, she had his attention, but where it was going to lead her was a question she could not answer. Probably nowhere, she thought miserably. He was only taking her out because Marie was in New York.

  It was an unpleasant admission, but she refused to let it sour her mood and was sweetness itself as she opened the door to his ring. Her skin was flushed from her bath, her hair still faintly damp, with the ends curling softly under. She wore more makeup than usual—almost as if it were a mask behind which she could hide—and she felt him give her a startled look as he stepped into the hall. He, too, looked different tonight: very broad in a light gray suit, his neck rising tanned and strong from a pale blue shirt whose color lent blue depths to his clear gray eyes. She was curious to know where he was taking her but did not ask, even pretending not to notice when he started to drive out of London.

  Their destination turned out to be a riverside restaurant whose dining room overlooked lawns that sloped down to the water.

  "The setting is simple but the food is excellent," Zachary assured her, and she wondered what he would say if she told him that even eating straw with him would be palatable.

  Straw is just right for me, she reflected. It shows what a donkey I am! Deliberately she studied him over her pre-dinner drink, trying to assess what there was about him that made him so special to her. There were many things that set him apart from the other men she knew: his looks, his seriousness, his acute mind. It was hard to understand why Uncle John had not left him control of Farrell's.

  "Henri Bergerac's play had excellent reviews in New York," she said, forcing herself to bring the name Bergerac into the conversation.

  "He got a standing ovation in the theater," Zachary added. "Marie told me."

  "Is she back?" The question was almost whispered.

  "No. I spoke to her on the telephone."

  Samantha longed to ask how often he did so, but bit hard on her lip instead.

  "Shall we order?" he suggested.

  "Why the hurry?"

  "I've got plans," he teased and, at her questioning look, nodded his dark head in the direction of the river. "I have always fancied myself in a punt with a pretty girl."

  "I'm not a good swimmer," she warned.

  "Thanks for your vote of confidence!"

  Laughing, they opened the menu. By the time they entered the dining room it was already full, though they seemed to be the only people from out of town. The food was as delicious as Zachary had promised and she asked him how he had come to hear of the place.

  "An American brought me here the first week it opened and I've been meaning to come back ever since."

  He poured the wine which had been set before them and they lapsed into easy conversation. It was still light when they drank their final cup of coffee and then made their way to the water's edge and the punt which was awaiting them.

  "I thought you were joking," she murmured as she gingerly stepped into it.

  "I never joke about serious things." He gave his attention to negotiating his way and it was several moments before he relaxed.

  They were moving slowly upstream. On either side of them gardens meandered down to the water's edge, with houses set farther back: gracious houses that looked as if they had come off the covers of Homes & Gardens.

  "I'd love a place on the river," she said.

  "It can be rather damp in the winter," he said prosaically.

  "How unromantic you are."

  His eyes glinted, making comment unnecessary, and she looked away hurriedly and trailed her hand in the water. As it grew dusk they returned to the small lounge where fresh coffee and homemade biscuits were served to them. Another young couple sat opposite, hands linked, eyes locked, then moving slowly—as if in a dream—they rose and went up the narrow, timbered staircase.

  Zachary met Samantha's eyes and gave a faint smile. "They have a few bedrooms here. It's a way of earning extra money."

  "I wouldn't have thought it paid."

  "People are always looking for somewhere secluded to stay."

  She felt her cheeks burn and hoped the light was too poor for him to see. But it was a vain hope as his next words told her.

  "I only brought you here to dinner, Samantha. My car isn't likely to break down and even if it did, we could hire a taxi."

  She set her cup sharply on the tray. "I'm not scared, Zachary. I know the way I behaved on Saturday didn't show it, but as I said at the time, it was only because it was so unexpected."

  "You still looked somewhat big-eyed when the couple opposite went upstairs."

  "That was unexpected too."

  "Why? When a couple love each other, what's more natural than for them to want to go to bed?"

  For a split second she was startled, then she laughed. "You're quite right."

  "Then why the embarrassment?" he persisted.

  "Because I'm with you," she said flatly. "You've always been so serious with me that I—that I can't—"

  "Think of me as a lover?" he cut in.

  Because the exact opposite was true, she became even more flustered. But luckily he, too, saw it to mean the opposite.

  "I may be the seriou
s type, Samantha, but I'm not a monk—as you well know."

  No words could more quickly have brought her down to earth, and she gathered her bag on to her lap, a sign he read correctly by rising and suggesting they leave.

  Throughout the journey back to London his foot did not leave the accelerator, and he only stopped when they reached her apartment building. Afraid he believed she had wanted to end the evening because she had not enjoyed it, she searched for a way of showing him this was not true.

  "Would you like to come in for a nightcap? It isn't all that late."

  "Sounds a good idea," he agreed, and followed her to the elevator.

  Outside her door he took the key from her, inserted it in the lock and went in ahead of her to switch on the lights in the hall. Together they entered the living room. It was almost as if they were returning to their own home, with Zachary playing the part of her husband. She dropped her bag and jacket onto a chair and ran her hands through her hair. It was silky to the touch and she pulled it slowly to try and make herself less aware of the nervousness coursing through her.

  "Coffee or whisky?" she asked in a high voice.

  "Neither," he said thickly and put his arms around her.

  With a sigh she gave herself up to his hold, knowing this was what she had been waiting for since he had come to collect her five hours ago.

  There was nothing fumbling or inexpert in his touch. It was that of an experienced man who knew how to arouse without creating fear. It was amazing how intimate the touch of mouth upon mouth could be; the way lips could move with sensual deliberation, arousing a hundred unknown senses; turning her strength to weakness and her will power to water. Her legs trembled and he gathered her closer, drawing her down upon the settee and cradling her on his lap. The musky scent of his after-shave lotion was heady in her nostrils and mingled with the warm smell of his skin. His hair was soft to her touch and she rubbed her hand against it. He responded by doing the same to hers, then his fingers moved down her cheek to clasp her throat. They didn't go any farther but remained on the base of her neck, his thumb moving softly upon the pulse that beat there.