Rich As Sin. Anne Mather
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burst from his lips, and he straightened abruptly, his jaw clenching as he examined how it made him feel. For the first time since she had walked out on him, he felt a healthy sense of resentment. She was deliberately turning the knife in the wound. And she obviously expected him to refuse.
Poor Georgio, Matthew thought grimly. He doubted he knew Melissa had invited her ex-lover to their engagement party. What an irony! But what exactly was Melissa’s game?
Of course, it was possible she wanted him back. Matthew’s stomach muscles tightened at the thought. But not on the old terms, he acknowledged, with strengthening cynicism. She had made that plain enough when he’d implored her to stay.
So what was she trying to do? Play one lover off against another? He gave a bitter smile. It might be amusing to find out. There had always been a latent sense of masochism in their relationship.
‘BUT why are you doing this?’ Paul Webster regarded his fiancée with impatient eyes. ‘I thought the café was doing well enough. Why do you need to supplement your income by acting as someone’s skivvy?’
‘It’s not like that.’ Samantha Maxwell endeavoured to keep her temper. ‘But you have to understand that this is a new departure. And one which, if it’s successful, could prove really exciting.’
Paul snorted. ‘Exciting? Working every hour God sends!’
‘Not every hour,’ replied Samantha reasonably. ‘Just an odd evening here and there. And it’s not as if you’re going to miss seeing me. You have to visit your clients, and I’ll visit mine.’
‘Well, I think you’re crazy!’
‘Yes, I know.’ Samantha pushed a strand of toffee-coloured hair behind her ear and tried to concentrate on the shopping list in front of her. But it wasn’t easy with Paul baulking her at every turn, persisting in regarding her job as a secondary occupation.
‘I mean,’ he went on, as if sensing he was pushing her too hard and attempting to be persuasive, ‘it’s not as if you’re a trained chef, or anything. You’re an English graduate, Sam. You could be a teacher. Instead of which, you’re playing at housewife in someone else’s kitchen.’
Samantha’s nostrils flared as she looked up. ‘I am not playing at housewife,’ she retorted sharply. ‘And, whether you like it or not, I enjoy what I do. You can’t seem to understand that getting this branch of the business going is a real adventure. And it could be just the beginning of a whole new career.’
‘Making other people’s meals!’
‘Catering—for people who don’t have the time, or the inclination, to do it themselves.’
‘As I said, playing housewife in other people’s kitchens.’
‘If you want to put it that way.’ Samantha was growing tired of the argument. She looked reflectively around the empty café, with its Austrian blinds and gingham tablecloths. ‘I’d have thought you’d be glad I was making such a success of the business. After all, it was your idea that I open this place.’
‘Yes. Because you didn’t know what you wanted to do, when you left university, and the lease was available. If you hadn’t voiced some crazy notion of starting a sandwich-round, I doubt if I’d have suggested it.’
‘But you did,’ Samantha reminded him, straightening a silver condiment set, and adjusting a fan of scarlet napkins. ‘And I’m very grateful to you. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Only—well, Mum and Dad were keen that I went to university, and they’d worked so hard to send me there, I couldn’t disappoint them. I’m not sorry I went. It taught me a lot. Not least, what my priorities are, and what I hope to achieve.’
‘Success in business!’ Paul shook his head. ‘And all this time I thought you wanted to marry me.’
‘I do.’ Samantha turned to him then, her honey-pale features taut with worry. ‘But it’s not the only objective in my life. I need a career, Paul. I really do.’
Paul sighed. ‘And you think branching out into personal catering is the answer?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t done enough of it yet to find out. But meeting Jenny like that was a godsend. And the contacts I made at her dinner party are priceless!’
‘But they’re all in the West End! I don’t like the idea of you driving all that way home in the dark!’
‘Oh, Paul!’ Samantha tilted her head to one side, and then, abandoning her defensive stance, she crossed to where he was sitting, and perched on his lap. ‘You don’t have to worry about my safety. I’m a perfectly good driver, and in any case the nights are getting lighter.’
‘And what happens when the winter comes again?’ persisted Paul, though he had softened sufficiently to nuzzle her neck with his lips. ‘Still, we’ll be married by then, won’t we? You’ll have more than your hands full looking after me.’
‘Mmm.’
Samantha’s response was doubtful, but Paul was too busy nibbling her ear to notice. Nevertheless, when his hand moved to the buttoned fastening of her shirt, she stopped him. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Paul; she did. But, unlike him, she couldn’t switch moods so completely. And she didn’t share his willingness to use sex to mend their differences.
‘Hey—–’
Her protective grip on the lapels of her shirt brought a grunt of protest, but Samantha slid lightly off his knee, and adopted a rueful smile.
‘Do you realise what time it is?’ she exclaimed, running a nervous palm down the seam of her neat black skirt. ‘I’ve got to call at the wholesaler’s before I go home, and if I don’t hurry they’ll be closed before I get there.’
Paul regarded her dourly for a moment and then, as if controlling his impatience, he rose obediently to his feet. He was a tall man, solid and handsome, in a blond, Nordic sort of way. He liked outdoor activities, and played rugby regularly, which accounted for his rather stolid appearance. He liked to think he was very fit, though Samantha knew he sank rather too many beers in the clubhouse after the match to be in really good shape. Nevertheless, he was kind, and fairly even-tempered, and extremely loyal. And Samantha had known him for over six years, ever since they first got to know one another at the local sixth-form college.
‘You know,’ he said now, taking a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, and smoothing out its curl, and Samantha’s heart sank. ‘I must be the only man in Northfleet whose girlfriend is still a virgin. Whose fiancée is still a virgin,’ he corrected himself heavily. ‘Am I going to have to wait until our wedding night, Sam? Is that why you won’t let me touch you?’
Samantha suppressed an inward groan, and reached for her jacket, which had been lying over the back of a nearby chair. ‘I do let you touch me,’ she protested, wishing Paul hadn’t chosen this minute to start another conversation about their relationship. ‘But we’ve only been engaged for a little over a month. Give me time. Let me get used to the idea.’
Paul’s mouth tightened. ‘I could say that you shouldn’t have to “get used” to the idea,’ he retorted, with rather more heat. ‘For God’s sake, Sam, it’s almost the twenty-first century! As you’re so fond of reminding me, women want to be equal with men!’
‘Intellectually equal, not sexually,’ she countered, pushing her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. Her nail caught on the lining as she did so, and she emitted a sharp gasp of frustration. ‘Not now, Paul, please. I’m simply not in the mood.’
‘Sometimes I wonder if you ever will be,’ he muttered, and although she had only heard the tone of his mumbled protest Samantha swung round.
‘What?’
‘Forget