by Anne Mather
Helen’s lips quivered. ‘I know,’ she choked out, an uncontrollable tide of mirth rising inside her now that she could see that only Lady Benchley’s pride had been dented. ‘Oh, God! Bryan’s going to kill me!’
‘I’d be more inclined to kill him first,’ remarked Reed drily. ‘He appears to be loading you with all the blame.’
Helen sobered as she met Bryan’s angry eyes. ‘Well—it was my fault,’ she murmured unhappily. ‘Oh, lord, do you think Lady Benchley will expect me to compensate her for a new dress?’
‘She may send the bill for its cleaning to the gallery, but it wasn’t your fault,’ declared Reed flatly. ‘I saw what happened, and she walked right into you.’
Helen swallowed and looked back at him. For a few moments she had forgotten who she was talking to, and now, realising what she had said, she felt the hot colour stain her cheeks once again.
‘Um—well, thank you,’ she said uncomfortably, aware that Bryan was unlikely to take her word for it. ‘I—er—I’d better go and get a brush and dustpan, and clear this mess up.’
‘I’ll help you,’ said Reed, squatting down and beginning to gather the larger pieces of glass on to the tray, and Helen was gazing at him disbelievingly when Bryan observed what was happening.
Excusing himself from Lady Benchley, he came across to them, his expression one of utter condemnation. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded of Helen. And then, to Reed, ‘Mr Wyatt, really, there’s no need for you to do this.’
Reed straightened. ‘I was just helping your assistant out.’ He pushed his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. ‘Accidents will happen.’
‘This was no accident,’ retorted Bryan, turning back to Helen. ‘It was rank carelessness! Hasn’t anyone ever told you that when you’re carrying a tray of glasses you don’t go bumping into people?’
‘I didn’t—’
‘Don’t you dare deny it! What are you saying? That Lady Benchley deliberately caused you to knock her down?’
‘No, of course not, she backed into me—’
‘Nonsense! You obviously weren’t looking where you were going,’ Bryan informed her coldly. ‘I should have known better than to allow you to help out on an important occasion like this. Well, you can go and get your coat, because you’re fired! Do you understand? I don’t want to see you in this gallery ever again, do you hear me? And,’ he added, putting his lips close to her ear, ‘I shall have something to say to Clive the next time I see him. Something about the dangers of employing underage staff!’
‘I think you’re being a little hasty, Korda,’ Reed interposed at this point, but Helen didn’t wait to see if his intervention did any good. She was hurt, and humiliated, and as she pushed her way through the throng of people, who had been watching the display with undisguised curiosity, she was sure they all blamed her for what had happened.
Stan Macdonald, Clive’s barman, caught her arm as she brushed past him to collect her belongings. ‘Hey—what’s going on?’ he asked, but although his tone was not accusatory Helen could only shake her head. Her eyes were burning with the effort of holding back her tears, and, grabbing her black jacket from the office, she hurried out the door.
In the alleyway that ran between the gallery and the wine bar, she stopped to blow her nose and recover her composure. She couldn’t go home in this state, and while she was tempted to go and tell Clive what had happened she was very much afraid he would have little sympathy for her. And when Bryan was through complaining about her, she didn’t think she’d have a job at the wine bar either. Clive wouldn’t want to risk losing his licence, and the few pounds a week she had earned to supplement the family income would be forfeited.
She sighed, hunching her shoulders against that eventuality. It was so unfair, she thought, pushing the damp tissue she had been using back into her pocket. She had not been to blame. Not entirely, anyway. And, as humiliation gave way to indignation, she thought how unjust Bryan had been. He hadn’t seen what happened. He couldn’t really judge the situation. It was just that Lady Benchley spent a lot of money in the gallery, and he was afraid of losing her favour.
The only bright spot of the evening had been meeting Reed Wyatt, and she had been too shaken up to really appreciate it. And he had been nice, she remembered wistfully. Much nicer than she had expected, actually. Even though she had considered he was an attractive man earlier in the evening, she had consoled herself with the thought that he couldn’t possibly be as distracting as he looked. But he was. He had proved to be the only one who had cared about her feelings, and she shivered a little when she remembered how she had felt when he touched her.
Of course, he had only been polite, she told herself glumly. She shouldn’t attribute anything personal to what had, after all, simply been an act of kindness. He had probably felt sorry for her, she thought gloomily. She had made an absolute fool of herself.
Sniffing, she glanced quickly about her, to make sure no one had observed her bout of self-pity, before starting off towards the main road. It was still fairly light, the warm summer evening only reluctantly giving way to night. It was early, too. Barely nine o’clock. She had told her parents not to expect her before eleven o’clock at the earliest. Bryan had promised to get her a minicab, as Clive usually took her home.
Realising she would have to make her own arrangements this evening, Helen decided not to call a cab. If she was to lose her job, she couldn’t afford to spend money on cabs when it wasn’t absolutely necessary. The gallery was just off Kensington High Street, not far from Kensington Gardens. She could walk to the nearby Underground station, and take the Tube home to Chiswick.
Pushing her hands into her pockets, she started to walk, ignoring the occasional whistles and cat-calls that came her way. Her father wouldn’t be especially pleased about her travelling on the Tube on her own at this time of the evening, but it couldn’t be helped. She was sixteen and a half, after all. And, as Clive had always maintained, she looked eighteen at least.
She had gone about a hundred and fifty yards when she realised a car was slowing its pace to match hers, and she automatically moved away from the kerb. There were plenty of people about, and she wasn’t exactly scared, but she had always been taught to be cautious, and kidnapping did go on.
However, the car—a low green Mercedes—stopped, and a man got out. ‘Can I give you a lift?’ he asked, his voice unmistakable, and Helen gazed disbelievingly at Reed Wyatt.
‘A lift?’ she echoed, swallowing her astonishment. ‘Wh-where?’
‘Wherever you like,’ replied Reed humorously, a smile playing about his lips. ‘Home. To a restaurant. You choose.’
Helen stared at him. ‘A restaurant?’ she repeated, her mind latching on to that almost incredible suggestion.
‘I thought you might be hungry,’ he said. ‘I guess you didn’t get a lot of time to eat back there.’ He nodded back over his shoulder. ‘Humble pie wasn’t on the menu.’
‘Wasn’t it?’ Helen couldn’t prevent the corners of her mouth from tilting upwards. Then, in an effort to normalise the situation, she added, ‘Well—thank you for your support anyway. But there was really no need for you to feel sorry for me. You shouldn’t have left the party. I can make my own way home.’
Reed, who had been resting his arm on the car door, now slammed it shut and came towards her. ‘I’m not doing this because I feel sorry for you,’ he said, and although he wasn’t touching her Helen felt as if the air between them were vibrating with energy. ‘I’d like to take you for supper. Will you let me?’
Helen took a shaky breath. ‘You’re parked on double yellow lines,’ she said, not answering him. ‘You’re not supposed to park on double yellow lines.’
‘I know.’ But he didn’t sound interested. ‘Well? Will you have supper with me?’
Helen moistened her lips. ‘Where?’
‘Anywhere. Wherever you like.’
Helen hesitated. ‘I—I’ve got splashes of cha
mpagne on my trousers.’
‘So?’
‘So, are you sure you want to do this?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
He was looking down at her with eyes that were so much darker and more intent than she had imagined them to be. And he was asking her to have supper with him, she thought incredulously. It was like a dream come true. Only it wasn’t a dream, and she wasn’t altogether sure she could handle it. After all, her experience with men was so limited, and it was obvious he thought she was older then she really was. She wondered what he would say if she told him she was only sixteen. She thought she knew the answer.
‘Is it such a difficult decision?’ he asked now, touching her cheek with the knuckles of one hand. ‘I thought we were friends.’
Friends! Helen breathed a little unsteadily. What did he mean by that? And she had thought she had exaggerated that encounter over the broken glass!
‘You can trust me, you know,’ he added softly. ‘I’m not a rapist, or a sadist, or someone who takes advantage of innocent young women, and you did give me the impression that you liked me.’
‘I did?’ Helen gulped.
‘Yes.’ Reed pushed his hands into his pockets, as if by leaving them free he might be tempted to touch her again. ‘You’ve been watching me all evening. Or was that just my imagination?’
Helen caught her breath. ‘How do you know that?’
‘How do you think?’ he countered. ‘I’ve been watching you, too.’
Helen shook her head. ‘I—don’t believe you.’
‘Why not? Compared to most of those old tabbies in there, you were like a breath of spring.’ He smiled. ‘That hair—it’s like a flame.’
Helen put up a nervous hand to touch her hair, and then withdrew it again. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Say yes,’ he urged her huskily. ‘Before I get a parking ticket.’
Helen’s lips twitched. ‘I—all right,’ she said, before she could mentally talk herself out of it. It was rash, and unwise, and all the other epithets she had ever been warned against, but it was too late now. She had committed herself, and nervous excitement bubbled inside her as he led her to the car.
The car itself was sleek and luxurious, smelling of leather and the indefinable essence of Reed’s habitation. It was a heady mixture of aftershave, soap, and Scotch whisky, combined with the clean male scent of his body. He settled Helen in the passenger seat, and then walked around the car to get in beside her, giving her a lazy smile before starting the engine.
‘So,’ he said, pulling out into the traffic of Kensington High Street, ‘what’s it to be? The Ritz? Or Colonel Sanders?’
Helen gave him a jerky look. ‘Not—not the Ritz,’ she declared firmly, not at all convinced he wasn’t teasing her. ‘Just—somewhere ordinary.’
‘OK.’ Reed grinned at her. ‘Somewhere ordinary it is.’
In the event he took her to a Japanese restaurant, in the basement of a hotel in Park Lane. It wasn’t what Helen would have called ordinary. The hotel itself was very well known, and although the Japanese restaurant did not demand a formal standard of dress, it was nevertheless very different from any of the eating places she was accustomed to. The lighting was diffused, and subdued, and they sat in a cushioned booth that gave them total privacy.
With Reed’s assistance, Helen ordered teppanyaki steak and lobster, with a clear vegetable broth to begin with, and a sharp lemon sorbet for dessert. She drank sake—which Reed told her was rice wine—for the first time in her life, and made a creditable job of using her chopsticks. Reed himself, she noticed, ate very little. But he did have several sakazukis—or cups—of the potent rice wine, and every time she looked at him she found him looking at her.
Because of this, and because she was nervous, Helen talked more than she should have done. But she couldn’t help anticipating what her mother and father would say if she told them she had accepted an invitation from a man she knew nothing about, and in consequence she made up a whole new identity for herself to fit her surroundings.
Not that she had really lied, she consoled herself now. But she had allowed him to think she had a place of her own—albeit a bed-sitter—and that she was paying for herself to attend secretarial college, by working evenings at the wine bar.
The waiter brought lemon tea at the end of the meal, and, glancing at her watch, Helen was relieved to see it was only half-past ten. Her parents were not likely to worry about her much before midnight. They trusted Clive to see that she got home safely.
Permitting herself a covert look in Reed’s direction, Helen couldn’t help feeling some amazement that she was here at all. She could imagine how Lady Benchley would feel if she knew that the waitress was dining with the guest of honour. And Bryan, too. She doubted he would believe it.
All the same, she wished Reed would tell her something about himself. He was fairly reticent about his own background, and, although she had guessed from his accent that he was an American, he had not told her what his occupation was, or where he lived.
‘Did you enjoy it?’
His question startled her, and she realised with some confusion that for the past few minutes she had been staring at him quite openly.
‘Oh—oh, yes, it was lovely,’ she conceded hurriedly. ‘It—er—it was very kind of you to invite me. Thank you very much.’
Reed’s lips parted. ‘Now you’ve made me wish I hadn’t asked,’ he remarked drily. ‘You don’t have to thank me like a polite child; I’ve enjoyed it, too.’
Helen flushed. ‘I’m not a child,’ she protested, and Reed inclined his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Perhaps not.’ His eyes drifted down to the rounded swell of her bosom; and, intercepting his gaze, Helen was embarrassed to discover that her breasts were clearly evident beneath the silky material of her shirt. ‘You just sounded like one for a moment,’ he added, and she forced herself to meet his amused gaze. ‘It’s my advanced years. I have that effect on young women.’
She was sure he knew exactly what effect he had on young women, but she didn’t know how to answer him. She knew he was teasing her, but she had no experience of how to deal with it. Or him. If it had been his intention to put her at her ease, he hadn’t succeeded. On the contrary, now that the meal was over, she was intensely aware of her own immaturity, and how desperately she wanted to keep him interested in her.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ he murmured now, and she thought how frustrating it was to be so transparent.
‘I’m not worried,’ she insisted, but she was, and he knew it.
‘I meant what I said, you know,’ he told her gently, watching her troubled expression with lazily sensual eyes. ‘I have enjoyed this evening. Particularly the latter part.’ He smiled. ‘You did me a favour, you know, by giving me an excuse to leave.’
Helen wet her dry lips with a nervous tongue, unaware of the provocation in doing so. ‘I can’t believe that,’ she said, folding her napkin into a rather uneven oblong, and he lifted his immaculately clad shoulders in a dismissing gesture.
‘Why not?’ With his eyes on her mouth, he shifted deliberately towards her. His weight depressed the cushion only a couple of inches from her hip, his dark-trousered thigh a bare hand’s breadth from hers. ‘I’d be a fool if I didn’t find the company of a beautiful woman more exciting than that of a group of boring old fogies.’
His breath wafted over her, only lightly charged with alcohol, but Helen couldn’t prevent the shiver of anticipation that slid down her spine as he continued to look at her. It trembled on her tongue to say she wasn’t a beautiful woman, but she knew, instinctively, that that was not the thing to say. Besides, did it really matter whether she was beautiful or not? He had said she was, and even if he was only being gallant she shouldn’t contradict him.
‘How—how long are you planning staying in London?’ she asked instead—anything to distract his attention from the fact that her knees were quaking, and he frowned.
‘
I’m not sure. A few days. A week, maybe.’ He was non-committal, and her heart palpitated when he lifted one of her hands from the table and cradled it between both of his. ‘Such white skin,’ he said, lightly stroking her knuckles with his thumb. ‘Some of the women I know would pay a fortune to have skin as fair as this.’
Helen quivered. ‘It—it’s not such an advantage,’ she ventured weakly. ‘I—burn very easily.’
‘Yes.’ Reed looked at her face now, and Helen could see her own reflection in the strangely heated depths of his grey eyes. ‘I can see that.’
‘Oh—’ She put up a nervous hand to her cheek, feeling its hectic colour without needing to see what it looked like. It was the bane of her life that she blushed so easily, and right now, she was sure, her face must be shining like a beacon.
‘Don’t look like that.’ Reed lifted one hand, and brushed his thumb against her cheek. ‘It’s quite refreshing to meet someone who hasn’t learned to hide their feelings. Am I embarrassing you? Is that why you’re so intense?’
Helen moved her face helplessly from side to side. ‘You’re—not embarrassing me,’ she denied, although in truth she thought he was. Though perhaps not for the reasons he imagined. Just being near him like this was enough to turn her limbs to fire.
Reed withdrew his fingers from her face with evident reluctance, brushing her mouth as he did so. She wasn’t sure if his touch was deliberate or not, but her lips parted almost automatically, and when he resumed his examination of her hand again she could still taste his skin on her tongue.
‘Relax,’ he said, turning her hand over to expose her palm, and Helen drew an uneven breath. ‘I’m only holding your hand,’ he added softly. ‘Considering what I’d like to do, I’m being very public-spirited.’
Helen felt like saying he wasn’t just holding her hand. He was doing more, so much more, than that. But, once again, she kept her opinion to herself. After all, how could she tell him that when he touched her she felt the repercussions from the top of her head to the soles of her feet…?
‘Can I get you anything else, sir?’
