‘That the Scots don’t wear anything under their kilts,’ said Venny, and started to laugh.
Somehow within the next half an hour the hotel management swung into action and managed to restore order. Jamie was removed to the kitchens – but not before he’d mooned comprehensively at the diners. The sad-looking mound of ice that had been his glorious sculpture was cleared away, and the stage and the surrounding area were mopped up. Angry and offended and downright frightened diners who had been unlucky enough to be seated near the stage were escorted back to their relaid tables, and Dani got the waiting staff in order and got the main course served. There were mutterings about compensation and charges being brought, but on the whole things settled down quite quickly and a sumptuous main course was followed by pudding, then cheese and biscuits, fruit and mints and coffee and brandy, and everyone’s tempers started to improve. The diners became quite mellow, so that by the time the awards were to be given people were leaning back in their seats, cigars were being puffed upon, and smiles were again the order of the day.
The television celebrity turned out to be a perky Irish BBC weather girl, escorted onto the now pristine stage by the hotel manager. She was blonde and had improbably perfect large breasts which seemed about to burst from the confines of her black bugle-beaded gown. She handled the gold envelopes containing the Blue Ribbon awards results with reverence. Canned music boomed out from behind the stage, and as synthetic drums rolled she made a very pretty speech during which her audience, sated with food and fine wines, hardly fidgeted at all.
Venny smiled across at Micky; he winked back. And then, over his shoulder, she noticed someone who looked familiar. A thick body, dark curls, a choleric face. It was Bill Thompson. Catching her eye, he cheekily raised his glass to her. Venny quickly averted her gaze. He had grown a goatee beard, which added an edge of sophistication to his image, she thought. But he was still a bastard.
‘So here we go,’ the weather girl was saying with the effusive warmth she usually reserved for isobars and wind chill factors. The drum roll grew progressively louder. ‘The Blue Ribbon awards, the most prestigious restaurant awards for excellence, for efficiency, for ambience, for the very best food.’
‘Come on, get on with it,’ urged Micky.
‘The standard of entry has never been higher, and the panel of judges were faced with a terribly difficult decision when they saw how exceptional each of the contestants were.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ sighed Micky.
‘Hush,’ Venny urged him.
The weather girl was opening the envelope, taking her time over it, building up the bated-breath atmosphere in the big room.
‘And so in third place we have Le Petit Noir,’ shouted the weather girl with a broad grin. ‘Proprietor, Philippe Noir.’
‘Who?’ asked Venny, peering around heads as a spotlight caught and held the Frenchman who now rose and started down towards the stage.
‘He’s very good,’ admitted Micky, clapping along with everyone else.
‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘You must have.’
‘I haven’t.’
Up on the stage, Philippe Noir was embracing the weather girl and kissing her with exuberant Gallic charm on both cheeks. He gave her a friendly pat on the ass too, something no Englishman would get away with. The weather girl smiled, and blushed.
‘Think he’s in there,’ said Micky.
‘Shush! She’s going to announce second place.’
Philippe Noir was returning to his seat clutching his prize. The weather girl steadied herself, patting her hair. ‘And now for second place. Of course here the competition became very intense.’
‘Oh, cut to the chase, can’t you?’ muttered Venny.
‘So intense in fact that the judges were very divided as to who should have the honour of being runner-up this year.’ The weather girl paused for dramatic effect. Venny’s fingers were digging into Micky’s forearm. ‘So it was decided that two restaurants should share that honour. In second place for the Blue Ribbon award, ladies and gentlemen,’ she flourished another envelope and consulted its contents, ‘I give you Beurre Blanc, proprietor Mr Micky Quinn.’
Micky rose to his feet with a grin as the spotlight zoomed in on him and the room erupted in a wave of clapping.
‘And Box of Delights, proprietor Ms Venetia Halliday!’
Venny stood up dazedly. If they had come second, then who the hell had come first? Still, was second really so bad? And they had tied for second place, so there would be no hurt feelings or bruised egos on either side. Actually, for her and Micky, it was a pretty good result.
She went up onto the stage with Micky, and they collected their blue ribbons set in perspex. Their names and the names of their restaurants were engraved on the silver base of each prize. Flashes fired. The press were in, and what with Jamie’s behaviour earlier in the evening and this surprising result, there were sure to be plenty of write-ups in the papers tomorrow, and lots of good publicity.
They kissed the weather girl (Micky seemed particularly enthusiastic about kissing the weather girl, thought Venny ironically) and went back to their seats clutching their prizes.
But who had won? Venny wondered.
Who could have beaten both Micky and herself, when she had been so sure that they had it all in the bag?
‘And now,’ said the weather girl portentously, ‘the moment we have all been waiting for. The moment when we bestow the first prize in these prestigious Blue Ribbon awards. Ladies and gentlemen,’ the weather girl opened the envelope, looked at it, paused, and then screeched: ‘First prize goes to Fantoni’s, proprietor Pietro Fantoni!’
The room was a solid wall of noise. The drum roll burst into a crescendo, then a fanfare sounded. The spotlight dipped and dived and spun around the packed room as a roar of approval and an explosion of clapping, catcalling and whistling went up from the crowd.
‘Who?’ yelled Venny at Micky.
‘Fantoni’s.’ Micky shrugged fatalistically. ‘I told you they’ve been getting good reviews.’
Over Micky’s shoulder Venny saw the spotlight settle upon Bill Thompson. She thought it was going to pass on, but it didn’t. Bill Thompson rose to his feet, waving and grinning.
‘But that’s Bill Thompson,’ she shouted across to Micky. ‘Is he going to collect the prize for this Fantoni chap?’
‘You’re joking,’ said a sour-faced girl sitting at their table. Her restaurant hadn’t even been in the top three. ‘That is Pietro Fantoni.’
‘No, that’s Bill Thompson,’ insisted Venny.
The girl shook her head vehemently. ‘Haven’t you heard of PR?’ she said bitterly. ‘Bill Thompson changed his name to Pietro Fantoni. It’s easy enough and it sounds a hell of a lot more impressive, I think you’ll agree. I spoke to him just a couple of weeks ago, he’s even started using a dummy Italian accent to convince the punters he’s genuine. Then he got hold of one of the big PR consultancies in Mayfair, to launch the whole thing. I tell you, he’s fooled everyone, the judges included.’
‘But the food must have been good,’ remonstrated Venny. She could barely take all this in. She watched in a complete daze while Bill Thompson – or, rather, Pietro Fantoni – went up onto the stage and cheerfully groped the giggling weather girl.
‘Of course it was,’ scoffed the sour-faced girl. ‘It was good because he hired a top chef straight off the plane from Tuscany. I tell you, the whole thing was rigged.’
‘Pietro’ was coming back to his seat – thank God he wasn’t going to turn all their stomachs by making a speech, thought Venny.
She couldn’t believe it.
Plodding, useless Bill Thompson had fooled them all. He’d had the last laugh.
And stupidly, incredulously, Venny now found herself laughing too. Laughing at the sheer absurdity of the situation.
‘You’re not getting hysterical, are you?’ asked Micky with a concerned look. ‘I’m not going to have to slap you round the
chops or anything drastic, am I?’
‘No,’ chuckled Venny. ‘Don’t worry. It’s just all so silly, that’s all.’
Micky gazed at her curiously. ‘When I first met you, these awards were all that mattered to you.’
‘I know. Ridiculous, isn’t it?’
‘You’re happy with joint second?’ asked Micky as the weather girl started another speech.
‘Perfectly,’ said Venny truthfully.
‘Almost like being in a partnership after all,’ quipped Micky.
‘Yeah. Almost,’ said Venny, and darted forwards to kiss him fleetingly on the lips.
‘What was that for?’ asked Micky, his blue eyes dancing with devilment as his hand slid up her inner thigh under the table. He kissed her back, lingering over the kiss, uncaring of the others at the table looking on with envy.
‘Nothing, really.’
‘So maybe you’d consider a partnership at some time in the future?’ Micky probed gently.
‘I might,’ admitted Venny, moving his hand further up her thigh and opening her legs a little so that he could get his hand just where he – and she – wanted it.
‘Pleasure, not business,’ said Micky, rubbing her furry mound lustfully.
‘Pleasure?’ Venny asked just a bit breathlessly.
‘Yeah. How about it?’
Venny smiled and leaned closer. ‘OK,’ she said happily. ‘But Micky, when are you going to pay me for the damage my car sustained in that shunt we had?’
‘I’ll pay you in kind,’ said Micky with an evil grin.
In the hotel kitchens an hour later, the staff were washing up, tidying away excess food, packing up for the evening. Jamie was sitting, head in hands, at the big aluminium prep table in the middle of the room while the others worked around him.
‘You’re a crazy son of a bitch,’ said an irate female voice from above him. He looked up. His grey eyes stared into Dani’s blue ones. She was holding a tea-towel and looked as if she was about to swipe him around the ear with it. He ran a hand through his tangle of blond hair and shrugged truculently. ‘You know, you’re really lucky the hotel management decided not to press charges,’ Dani raged on. ‘You’re lucky they didn’t just throw you out in the street and boot your sorry arse all the way back to Shepherd’s Bush. You’re lucky I was here to vouch for your good character.’
‘Yeah, well, thanks a bunch,’ said Jamie sarcastically, and pulled the angry and squirming Dani down onto his kilted lap. She wriggled, trying to get free. His damned sporran was digging into her hip. Or was it? God, it was his erection!
‘What made you do it?’ she demanded hotly, giving up trying to get away from him while her staff moved around them, listening surreptitiously. ‘One moment everything was sweet, and then you start doing your Braveheart impression up on the stage, and the whole place is in uproar! You’re the absolute bloody end, you really are!’
Jamie linked his arms around her waist and looked at her consideringly. ‘Shall we get engaged, then?’ he asked her bluntly.
‘That’s a ridiculous suggestion,’ said Dani frostily. ‘My parents would go demented.’
‘Shall we?’ he repeated.
‘Oh – all right, then,’ said Dani, and kissed him. The staff let loose a thunderous roar of cheers and clapping, but neither Dani nor Jamie paid them any attention.
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First published in 2000 as The Naked Flame by Black Lace, an imprint of Virgin Books
This edition published in 2013 by Black Lace, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
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Copyright © Crystalle Valentino, 2000
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