“So that’s how you found me,” she said, her voice low and hoarse. Horrified by the sound of it, she cleared her throat. Her best defense lay in acting as normal as possible. No more fainting, no more palpitations. If she wished to maintain her cover, she’d better pull herself together and start behaving in accordance with her role as one of the impoverished aristocracy.Her mask up, she asked, “How did you know it was mine?”
“Lucky guess, I’d say. And Parker’s nitpicking habits. He never leaves papers lying about.” He gestured with the flowers. “Have you got a vase to put these in? They’re already staring to wilt. I’ve walked around the neighborhood three times waiting for you to get home. They’re tired.”
He wasn’t about to leave. Resigning herself to the inevitable for the moment, she went to the cupboard in the kitchen and found a vase, which she handed to him. As if he’d been there many times, he filled it at the sink and stuck the gerberas haphazardly into the water. He set it on the small round table, stepping back and smiling at his artistry. “Just what the place needs, a touch of color.”
She suppressed a smile as she turned to face him. “Mr. Theopoulos, I think you’d better go.” This time her voice was steady, laced with just the right touch of indignation.
“I’m Tony.” The brown eyes didn’t waver as they studied her. “Why should I leave? We’ve only just met.”
“You’ve no right to come barging into my life.” Inwardly she was weakening. The temptation to let him stay tugged at her. If only things were different. If only she didn’t have to hide.
“Perhaps not.” He walked over to the overstuffed sofa that had been in the flat when she bought it. He sat down with easy, loose-limbed grace. “But then again, maybe I have. After you left, I thought of a lot of things that didn’t add up about you.”
“Add up?” she said, injecting scorn into her voice while her heart beat so rapidly it threatened to choke her. “What do you mean add up?”
He linked his fingers behind his head and set his right ankle upon his left knee. For the first time she noticed that his clothes were different from those he’d worn this afternoon. A sweatshirt with an indistinguishable logo stretched across his chest, and worn jeans molded themselves to his long legs.
The successful hotel executive? If she’d met him like this she would have mistaken him for a student despite the lines of maturity in his face.
Bagheera sat himself down in front of the chair, his green eyes avid with curiosity. Tony stared back at him, grinning as he saw the ragged scar that replaced the tip of one ear. When the cat tilted his head, he had a whimsically, lopsided look that didn’t go with the dignity of his demeanor.
Tony extended one hand. “Come on, cat.”
Bagheera jumped up, kneaded his sheathed paws for a moment and settled himself on Tony’s lap. He purred in ecstasy as Tony sank his fingers into the sleek fur and began to massage the underlying muscle.
“Bagheera, don’t be a nuisance,” Sam said sharply.
Bagheera raised his head and regarded her with a brief, you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look before settling back to purring.
“He’s not,” Tony said. “I like cats. I like their independence, the way they know their own minds.”
Regret stitched a tentative path through her anxiety. Tony was an attractive man, his manner and actions showing sensitivity and character. A good man to have on her side. The thought died. Her instincts had never been reliable barometers where men were concerned. She couldn’t rely on them.
Tony’s eyes rested on her face—cool, speculative. “You don’t add up,” he said, picking up the dropped thread of conversation as if the cat hadn’t tangled it. “Drab clothes, but bright nail enamel where nobody will see it. Your shoes are Guccis but they’ve seen better days.”
He paused, giving her a chance to comment. When she didn’t, he added, “But it was the least obvious that raised the most questions.”
She lifted her brows. “What was that?”
“The way you talk. The first words you said were in a different accent than the one you used afterwards. And even then you don’t sound like anyone I’ve heard here. I’ve heard almost every accent in the British Isles by this time, and I’ve got a good ear. Yours doesn’t quite fit.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time abroad.” She knew the game was up, but desperately tried to bluff.
“Where abroad? Canada, perhaps?” She shook her head, but he went on relentlessly. “Eastern Canada, to be exact. The English-speaking part of Montréal. You can’t fool me. I grew up there.”
It was worse than she’d feared. They might even have acquaintances in common. Realizing that her knees were about to collapse, Samantha sank down on the sofa.
She picked up the mug of coffee she’d made earlier, grimacing at the cold bitterness of the brew. She set it down again, almost spilling it as her fingers caught in the handle. “Do you think anyone else noticed?” she asked, stalling.
“I doubt it. Parker was too busy wringing his hands, and all of them were too far away in any case.” Tony stroked the cat, his hands as relaxed as Sam’s were tense. “So what’s the story, Samantha? Are you an escaped fugitive or what?”
She eyed him warily, her eyes round and dark behind her glasses. She would have to come up with a good story, one that sounded plausible. The questions he put to her were blunt and uncompromising, but implied a readiness to accept whatever explanation she was willing to give. But it had to be close to the truth. He would see through a lie at once.
Yet the truth would endanger them both.
She looked at him, the dark hair tumbling over his brow, the expectant look on his handsome face. She had to say something. “No, I’m not a fugitive, at least not an escaped one. I came here of my own free will.” Her voice was cool and remote, her eyes carefully shuttered behind lowered lashes. “My father died. I needed time to myself.”
“I’m sorry,” he said with ready sympathy. “Were you close?”
“No, not really.” As always when she thought of her father, a vague uneasiness stirred. She should have cried when he died, but there was no emotion, and she felt guilty about the lack of it.
“Was that what you meant by the remark you made?”
“What?” Lost in her thoughts, she only half heard the question.
“Something made you faint,” Tony said patiently. “You looked as if you’d seen a ghost, and muttered something about a dead man.”
Dubray. Her breath hitched in her throat with an audible click. No, she couldn’t tell him. The less he knew, the safer he would be.
She gave a soft laugh she tried to inject with humor. “You might say that. I saw someone I thought I knew. I’d heard he’d died. It was a shock.”
She recited this without once meeting his eyes, her fingers plucking at a loose thread in the cushion next to her. “However, since I’ve thought about it, I realize I only got a glimpse of him.”
“He was in the hotel?” Tony asked.
“Yes, going up in the lift.” Her mouth was so dry she could barely continue the half lie. “But it closed before I had a good look.”
“Do you know the man’s name? I could look it up in the register. Of course he’ll only be there if he’s a guest.”
“I don’t know his name.” An outright lie she hoped didn’t show on her face.
“Then how would you know if he was dead?”
She looked at him, her jaw clenching as she fought panic. She had truly painted herself into a corner. “I can’t recall. Probably in the newspaper or on TV.” Her gaze dropped. “It was probably just somebody who reminded me of him.”
Evasions. Tony knew she was lying. Her body language betrayed her discomfort. In the glow of the lamp next to her he could see the glistening sweat on her upper lip.
And yet the precise pseudo British accent hadn’t slipped once, and would have fooled most people.
His hand tightened in the dense fur, making the cat flinch and bolt off his lap. Bagheera stalked to the kitchen, tail high, the picture of affronted dignity. Tony barely noticed.
Who was Samantha Clark? he asked himself, drawn despite the discrepancies between her appearance and her story. Drawn? Hell, he was fascinated.
Where had she come from? She’d neither confirmed nor denied his guess at her origins.
She was afraid of something, something that had driven her from home. Despite her words, he was willing to bet that free will had little to do with her present circumstances. There was a dangerous secret in her past, involving a dead man.
A dead man who wasn’t dead.
If he had any sense, Tony thought, he would get out of here before he was ensnared in a situation rife with unanswered questions and badly hidden lies. But something about her touched him, ever since he’d looked into those rain-clear gray eyes and seen the shadows that stole their laughter. He’d tried to tell himself he’d imagined the fear, but they’d haunted him all afternoon.
“Samantha, if you’re in trouble, you should tell someone. Why not me?”
Her head jerked up. “I don’t know you, do I? How can I trust you?”
“Faith?” His brief smile was whimsical. “Or my honest face?” He stood up, stretching his arms above his head, his hand nearly touching the brass lamp fixture that hung from the ceiling. “I guess the only thing to do is to take you out for dinner. Once you know me better I’m sure I can convince you to trust me.”
She couldn’t. It would be crazy to become involved with this man. But his warmth and charm drew her. She’d been alone for months. Only through work and determination had she managed to keep her loneliness at bay.
Trust me
, Tony said. But it was herself she couldn’t trust.
Still, it was only dinner, and she realized she was hungry. He’d been kind to her. Perhaps she owed him this courtesy.
“All right,” she said, the worried frown smoothing out. “But somewhere simple.”
Grinning broadly, he pulled at his sweatshirt. “Dressed like this? It’ll have to be simple. How about the fish shop on the corner? Is it any good?”
“Sure, it’s fine.” She smiled, too, but inside she felt a little like a girl on an unexpected date with a boy she’d secretly fancied. “I’ve become one of their best customers.”
A low meow sent her to the kitchen. She stroked her hand quickly over the cat’s head, shivering a little as she recalled how Tony’s lean fingers had caressed the fur with sensuous absorption.
Odd how, in spite of her consuming anxiety, she’d noticed such a thing. Quickly banishing the thought, she let Bagheera out for his nightly prowl of the neighborhood, locking the door securely after him.
* * * *
Outside, the mist had thickened, and the evening felt cool, especially after the unusual warmth of the day.
Tony pushed open the door of the fish shop, inhaling sharply at the steamy heat that clouded the windows. As they entered, the clamor of raised voices in several languages and the hot oil smell from the fryers swirled around them. Sam welcomed the noise and the activity, the tangy scent of vinegar and brown sauce.
Wiping her glasses on her sleeve, she grinned at the Pakistani teenager who manned the cash register, giving him the order for both of them.
“Eat-in or takeaway, miss?” he asked.
“In, please.”
“Right.” He yelled the order at his father who sweated over the fryer at the far end of the high counter.
Sam groped in her handbag for her wallet, but Tony placed his hand over hers. “I invited you. I pay,” he said firmly.
The boy looked from one to the other, his black eyes bright with a knowing humor. Deftly ringing up the sale, he handed Tony his change, along with a receipt and a number. “Ten minutes. The girl will bring it to your table. If you can find one.”
“I’m sorry,” Samantha said over her shoulder as Tony pushed her ahead of him down the narrow aisle between the tables. “I should have asked what you wanted. But I’m in the habit of coming by myself.”
Why that confession warmed him he couldn’t have said. “It’s all right.”
A couple got up from a small booth, and Tony and Sam slid into it, grinning at each other like fellow conspirators as they saw the chagrin on the faces of two young men who’d reached the table seconds too late.
They ate their fish and chips, washing the food down with a soft drink that stained their lips orange. Afterwards, the trade in the shop having subsided somewhat, they lingered at the table, ordering tea.
When it came, Sam made a face. “I hate milk in tea. It’s a new waitress. The old one never put it in.”
Tony looked at her quizzically. “I thought all Brits took milk in their tea.”
“I’m—” She skidded to a stop. “We didn’t in our family,” she said firmly, making a gallant recovery.
“You mean you didn’t sit on the terrace in the summer and pour tea from a silver pot into thin china cups?”
His tone was gentle, but she thought she heard an underlying sarcasm. Lifting her chin, she said grandly, “Of course we did, but we poured our own.”
“It looks as if you’ve come down in the world.” With a smile that didn’t seem quite real he lifted his tea mug in a salute. “Welcome to the real world, Samantha Clark. Now, how about telling me your real name and what exactly you’re up to.”
She knew having dinner with him had been a mistake, and cursed her weakness. Despite the humid heat of the room, a chill seeped into her. She hugged her arms defensively around her chest. “I can’t. Believe me, I can’t.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?” He reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. “What is it, Samantha? What are you afraid of?”
Her face felt still and pale, his quiet concern tempting her. Only the fear kept her from spilling it all. “Nothing.”
A muscle tightened next to his mouth. “Okay, we’ll try a different approach. What were you doing in the Regal Arms this afternoon when you saw the ‘dead’ man?”
“I was buying a newspaper. Whenever I’m in the neighborhood, I buy a newspaper there.”
“Why there, Samantha? There’s a news agent’s on the street corner.”
She flushed. “Because I like the grandeur of the lobby. It reminds me—“ Again she broke off, biting her lip as she refused to elaborate.
Tony nodded as if he understood. “So we have something in common. We’re impressed by the lobby of the Regal Arms. What does it remind you of?”