Love to Hate You (22 page)

“I would have told you. And anyway, I don't usually go back on my word. Charles really wasn't the right guy for me. It took me a while to realise it, but I spend so much time at work that it's hard to think clearly when I'm not there.”

My sentence makes him smile. “I know what you mean.” The sound of a timer going off in the kitchen interrupts us. “It must be ready,” he says, standing up. “Would you like to come to the table?” he asks.

I look at him with puzzlement. “Have you cooked?” I ask.

“Of course. Why, what were you expecting?” he replies, as he disappears into the kitchen. Apparently Vera has got it all spot on.

“Appetizer” he says, sitting opposite me and placing on the table a dish containing a delicious-looking selection of cheeses and jams. “Please tell me you eat cheese,” he implores with bright eyes. “Yes, I do – all kinds” I confirm, with a laugh at his expression.

“Thank God. I was about to call you and ask, but I didn't want give it all away. Anyway there's tofu too—”

I'm extremely impressed that he has remembered that I'm vegetarian and has taken so much trouble to come up with a suitable menu. This thought is so unsettling that I hold out my glass for him to refill: I need a drink.

“What shall we drink to?” he asks, raising his glass.

“I don't really know—” I stammer, trying to think of something, then Beverly pops into my mind. “A job well done?”

Ian's face darkens slightly. “Don't keep thinking about work,” he says, “let's toast new opportunities.”

It's a phrase that might mean many things, but, somehow, as regards possibilities, there's only one that I can think of, and that is that the man in front of me is going to kiss me again tonight. The image is so shocking that I try to shake it off immediately, and Ian can't help but notice me squinting.

“You okay?” he asks sensing something.

“More or less,” I reply, “even though the truth is that you're making me nervous.” This confession slips out without me realising.

Ian doesn't seem to appreciate my answer. “Well I'm sorry to hear that, because I'm genuinely doing my best to make you feel comfortable.”

I know that he is. It's so nice tonight that I feel like I'm going to be sick. He's so bloody different from usual that unusually I don't understand what his plan is.

“It's all this that makes me nervous,” I try to explain. “Generally you're not this easy to get along with.”

“I'm going to have to correct you there: I am, actually, but only with people who let me be,” he responds in the same tone.

“Why this dinner?” I ask him, coming straight to the point.

Ian raises his eyes as if trying not to lose his patience. “It's just dinner, relax,” he says, trying to calm me. “Anyway, it seemed like a nice way to talk about everything – about hunting, about what my grandfather told you—”

“What is it that you think he said to me? It was nothing,” I say defensively. But he doesn't fall for it.

“I know my grandfather very well. He's been much more present in my life than my parents, who were always away at work or some function or other, so you shouldn't tell me fibs.”

I admit that it was not my intention to tell anyone about my exchange of views with the Duke of Revington.

“We didn't say anything important. We talked about how different I am to your usual choices,” I say, blandly.

Ian chews his food nervously. “Did he offend you in any way?” he asks, peering at me with maniacal attention.

Now it's my turn to raise my eyes. “Do you really think that I don't know how to look after myself?”

He of all people really ought to know what I'm like, especially if provoked.

My words seem to calm him. “Of all the people I know, you're the one who knows how to defend herself best,” he confirms, admitting a fairly obvious truth.

“So don't worry about it, then! I knew what to expect and I knew how to respond. Nothing happened, or at least, nothing happened until I let the pheasant get away.”

Ian laughs. “Yes, so I heard,” he says, raising his eyes.

“I'm sure you did. To put it bluntly, you sent a believer in animal rights on a hunt, what did you think would happen?” I ask, still chewing.

“Nothing. I just hoped that you wouldn't decide to point the gun at one of the hunters,” he says chuckling, as he slices off a piece of brie.

“Well I didn't, you'll be pleased to know,” I murmur, as I help myself to a piece of wholegrain bread.

*

“Have you finished?” he asks me shortly after, pointing to my plate.

“Yes. And it was delicious,” I tell him, as I help clear away the dishes.

“Ok, now it's time for the highlight of the evening,” he reveals, peering out from behind the kitchen door.

“And that would be?” I ask.

He re-appears a minute later with a steaming pan. “Italian cuisine: aubergine parmigiana,” he says, placing it on the table. It looks sensational.

“Sure it's not a frozen one?” I ask suspiciously.

Ian pretends to be indignant. “What do you mean?”

“You can't have it cooked yourself—” I say, thinking about how long it takes to prepare a dish like that. We left the office pretty late.

“I made it last night, with the help via phone of my cleaner. But I made it!” he says proudly.

“And you're sure you haven't put any poison in it?” I grimace as I help myself to a hearty portion.

He grabs his fork, helps himself to a piece directly from my plate, chews and swallows.

“See? Still alive,” he says, with a wink.

I push his hand away from my plate and try some. It looks absolutely divine.

“Good,” I admit, despite myself, shortly after.

“Only 'good'?” he asks, almost offended. “Ok, really good! What more do you want?”

“At the very least 'exceptional', because people 'like me' don't cook, as you know!” he teases. “So I'd like extra points for my hard work. And for a successful result.”

“How do you know that I say things like that about you?” I ask him in annoyance.

“What, don't you?” he asks, not at all offended by my tone. “The truth is that you're very predictable when you're passing judgement on the rich.”

For a moment I give him an intimidating glare.

“But we're digressing,” he says, “we haven't finished talking about what you said to my grandfather.”

He doesn't give up, apparently. Not that that's anything new – he's always been determined. “If you really want to know,” I say, sipping my wine, “why don't you ask him?”

“I did, dear Ms Smartarse, and he wouldn't tell me,” he complains. Wise man the Duke. “Ian, really, we didn't say anything. He wanted to know a little bit about me and I was straight with him. We talked about you a bit, and eventually he advised me to dump you as soon as possible.”

I'd wanted to tell him this in the most offhand way possible, and this certainly wasn't it.

“Why?” he asks, almost frowning.

“Why ignore the fact that we are
pretending?”
I say, as though talking to a child.

“Don't play about with words,” he says, giving me a dirty look. “You know what I meant.”

Actually I don't – I'm not clear at all.

“Why don't you make an effort to understand. I don't come from a posh background, I don't come from a rich family, my dream in life is anything but to get married and play the good little wife, and I'm not attractive enough to be with a person like you.”

I don't have any particular complexes about myself – I know what I'm worth and I'm objective about my looks, but a comparison between the two of us is unthinkable. I imagine that in his family they've probably been picking the most beautiful wives in the entire country for generations, with a significant overall increase in the aesthetic average. In my family, partners have been chosen for generations on the basis of their brains, and the physical appearance has been totally neglected. I'm not complaining, I'm just talking about facts. I'm very happy with my brain, and I'd never want to trade it in for better looks.

“Don't you like the way you look?” asks Ian, astonished.

“Of course I like the way I look!” I say, defensively. “But I'm a normal woman – normal height, normal build.”

“You're normal, I get it. And I'm not?” He asks, pressing the point.

Oh, come on, do we really have to play this stupid little game where he pretends he doesn't know how objectively attractive he is?

“Let's say that you're a bit
less
normal,” I say.

Ian raises an eyebrow, as though he hasn't fully understood my words. “What exactly about me is a bit ‘less normal'?” he asks, staring at me so hard that I can't help but blush.

“The eyes,” I say unthinkingly, because it's obvious that no sane woman would have said that. It's time I stopped drinking, if it isn't already too late.

Ian's face is begging for an explanation.

“You have the bluest eyes I've ever seen,” I admit through gritted teeth, lowering my eyes. What the hell is wrong with me? Has he slipped a truth drug into the parmigiana?

His expression softens, and he smiles at me in surprise. “Really?” he asks. It's obvious that wasn't the answer he was expecting.

As if all of London's women weren't scratching each other's eyes out to tell him.

“Well, yes. But, then, we people with boring brown eyes are easily impressed,” I try to defend myself, clearly embarrassed.

I got myself into this mess, and now I have to find a painless way to get out of it.

“You have beautiful brown eyes,” he replies, staring into them. “And they're sort of green around the outside,” he points with one hand.

“Never mind my eyes,” I say in annoyance, lowering them again. This evening is getting stranger by the minute. Good job I haven't mentioned his mouth!

“So, to sum up, you think that you are less attractive than me,” says Ian, looking for confirmation.

Ah! When he applies himself, he manages to get the idea…

“Can we please change the subject?” I ask, genuinely uncomfortable. “I don't feel any less attractive than you, I feel different from you – it's… different,” I babble.

Ian sniggers. “Ok, then, we're different. Fine. More wine?” he asks, and without waiting for an answer fills my glass.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I ask.

“No, I'm just trying to make you relax. You were a bit tense when you arrived.”

If it comes to that I still am, only now, I'm tipsy from the wine and keep blurting out what I really think. Great.

“Have you finished?” asks Ian, pointing to my empty plate. When I'm nervous, I eat and drink without even realizing it, obviously.

“Yes thanks. It was all very good,” I confirm, handing it to him. “Shall I help you wash up?” I ask, getting up and following him into the kitchen, where I see him put the dishes into the sink. “No, no – somebody else will do that tomorrow!” he says, scandalized by my proposal. Of course. His Lordship doesn't wash up, how could I have forgotten? I reflect in annoyance. Although, to be honest, I can't blame him: his family has got so used to being served over the last thousand years that Ian couldn't really be any different. He probably even thinks that he's a revolutionary, in his own small way, only having one maid and not a dozen like the rest of his family.

“I did buy the dessert, though,” he admits, pulling out of the fridge a wonderful Sachertorte with whipped cream.

“I think we'll forgive you this once, then. But Ian… spray cream? Really?” I tease, as we approach the table again.

If this had been a normal dinner invitation I would have offered to bring dessert myself, but I was so busy fighting off panic that I even forgot my good manners. Good thing he's thought of everything.

“I know, I know – it's not my style,” he admits with a guilty shrug.

“You'll have to forgive yourself,” I say, happily spraying a pile of whipped cream onto the slices he has just cut.

I'm about to sit back down, but as I'm putting the can on the table, I see that Ian's expression has changed.

“You've got cream on your nose,” he says, eyes shining, as he touches my face.

“Leave it, I'll do it.” I'm jumpy. The slightest contact with him is so unnerving that I can't wait to get away from it.

But Ian takes no notice, and with a delicate gesture rubs my nose with his finger, getting dangerously close. In his eyes I can see determination.

“Ian,” I say, reproachfully.

“I warned you, I love it when you say my name.” Well,
that's
not what I was expecting to hear. “Have you finished?” I ask, as he is showing no sign of taking his hand off my face. Instead, he suddenly places his open palm on my cheek. The usual electric shocks race through my body. “I haven't even started yet,” he says cryptically, drawing nearer and nearer. The fact that a second later his mouth is on mine is no surprise to either of us. I should have stopped him before, I reflect angrily as I abandon my lips to his. I should have done something, I should have got out of here.

This man does kiss divinely, though, and the combination of the wine and his lips has got me in a trance. I feel more sensual than ever as I start to caress him and stroke his neck, and Ian pulls me even closer, and kisses me even more intensely, if that's possible.

When I feel his hand moving up towards my breast, though, I snap out of it as though I've had an electric shock, and pull away abruptly.

“I don't think—” I say, trying to regain control of my mental faculties, hoping they haven't completely deserted my body.

Ian is still staring at me with those eyes.

“Stop it,” I say with a frown as I grab my plate and walk over to the couch. Better to put a few feet between us. I sit down and take a bite of my slice of cake. I need to try and normalise my blood sugar levels – that kiss knocked them for a loop.