The Latin Affair. Sophie Weston
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her round to face him. For a long moment, he looked searchingly into her eyes. Even in the half-dark his expression said as clearly as words that he could still hear what she could. High on his triumph, Andrew had been too excited to give her time, thought Nicky. And in that fatal instant when he had carried her to the sofa all the ancient horrors had crowded in. She did not know which of them had been more shocked by her animal cry of rejection.
Now, as she remembered, Nicky’s hands flew to her burning cheeks.
Andrew said quietly, ‘I deserve better than that, Nicky.’
There was a long, agonised pause. Nicky’s hands fell.
‘I know,’ she said almost inaudibly.
‘And, frankly, so do you.’
He looked round for his jacket. It was where he had thrown it, on the floor. The bottle of champagne he had brought lay on its side, half crushing the bright chrysanthemums he had found at the late-night store. Nicky blinked back sudden tears.
‘I’m sorry.’
Andrew had behaved well but he was still smarting. ‘So am I.’
He went to the door, then turned and kissed her cheek, quickly, with a new and awkward formality. Nicky leaned against him, burying her face in his chest so she did not have to see the pain in his eyes. He touched her hair fleetingly.
‘If you want my advice, you’ll find the guy. Get him out of your system. Or you’ll never be free.’
He went.
Nicky put the chain on the door and leaned her back against it. She was too shaken for tears.
She had thought she loved Andrew. Well—she was too shaken for dishonesty as well—she had thought that Andrew would take her as close to love as she was ever likely to get. She had thought it would be enough. It had never occurred to her that she was cheating Andrew.
‘Now what?’ said Nicky aloud.
She had no idea of the answer.
IN THE morning, of course, things looked different. They always did, thought Nicky. There was a job to do, her brother to meet for lunch, the last sunshine of autumn to savour. The small things, as always, would carry her through.
‘I will survive,’ Nicky told her mirror.
The gorgeous reflection stared back, only partially convinced.
Why on earth do I look like this? she thought. Andrew was right when he said she was a fraud. Even in her sober business suit she looked the original party blonde. What was more, she always had. Nicky winced at the thought.
Of course, there had been changes over the years. When she was sixteen her skin had been golden with a Caribbean tan; her untamed hair used to be a sun-streaked lion’s mane. These days she was city-pale and her daffodil hair shone. But, in spite of her best efforts, it was never quite immaculate. Soft tendrils always escaped to lie enticingly against her long neck. Add to that a kissable mouth and wide, longlashed blue-grey eyes and it was not surprising that men looked at her and thought they had found their dream babe. Nicky bared her teeth at her reflection.
‘Some babe,’ she said bitterly.
She was still brooding when she got to work.
‘Hey, what did I do?’ said Martin de Vries in mock alarm.
Nicky jumped, conscience stricken. Martin was the boss of Springdown Kitchens and she was late for work. Now she’d compounded her sins by glaring at him. She shook her head ruefully.
‘Nothing. It’s just one of those Monday mornings, that’s all.’
Martin nodded briskly. ‘That’s a relief. I need to get off to the exhibition hall soon.’ But he hesitated. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
Damn, thought Nicky. Martin was an old friend of the family. Of course he could see right through the last twenty years to the six-year-old with scabby knees and pigtails. It gave him an unfair advantage.
She summoned up a bright smile. ‘I’m fine.’
Martin knew how to interpret that. He had daughters of his own. He nodded. ‘Boyfriend trouble,’ he diagnosed.
Nicky winced theatrically. ‘You sound like my mother.’
‘No, I don’t. I sound like a caring employer.’
‘My next job is going to be with a hard-hearted tycoon who doesn’t know a thing about his employees. And cares less,’ Nicky muttered.
Martin ignored that. ‘What’s happened, Nick? Did he do something unforgivable, like want to marry you?’
Nicky smacked her conscience back in its box and glared at him for real.
‘That’s my business. Get down to the Lifestyle Fair and sell some kitchens,’ she retorted.
Martin was torn. He was fond of Nicky. On the other hand he ran a vulnerable small business and the fair was the showcase of the year.
‘As long as it isn’t a crisis,’ he said, patently anxious to be reassured.
Nicky gave a small huff of fury. But then genuine affection took over.
‘No crisis,’ she said more gently. ‘Just something that’s been building up a long time. All under control.’
‘OK,’ said Martin, relieved. He went
Squaring up to the work on her desk, Nicky found that he had left her plenty to do. It was a relief. It took her mind off the uncomfortable truths Andrew had exposed last night.
Besides, she knew that what she was doing was worthwhile. Martin was an inspired salesman, whereas Nicky liked practical organisation. She had her head down over the specifications of a small hotel kitchen when a cup appeared in front of her.
‘Coffee,’ said Caroline Leith, Martin’s newest and most sophisticated assistant. ‘You’re going to need it.’
Nicky looked up. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Martin refused to take any phone calls before he left.’
Nicky’s heart sank. That meant clients who would already be annoyed when she called them back.
‘Who?’
Caroline consulted her notebook. ‘Two from Mr Tremain’s secretary. One from Weber Hotels. Three from Mrs Van Linden. All of them only wanted to talk to Martin.’ She grinned. ‘Mrs Van Linden positively refused to talk to you under any circumstances. What happened? You told her what you thought of her horrible kitchen? Or she’s seen how you look?’
Nicky raised her eyes to heaven. ‘What’s wrong with how I look?’ she said dangerously.
‘Nothing as long as you aren’t a trophy wife worried about the competition.’
Nicky frowned. Caroline chuckled, unabashed.
‘What do you expect, with a figure like yours?’ she said frankly. ‘It may be unfashionable to have all those curves but it sure as hell presses all the right male buttons.’
Nicky tensed. That was more or less exactly what Andrew had said last night. To say nothing of a man called Steve under a Caribbean moon… But the phone rang and broke that particular unwelcome train of thought.
Caroline answered it, listened, then put her hand over the receiver. ‘SOS. Sally’s in trouble. Sounds like she’s going to cry.’
Nicky frowned blackly. Sally was the ideal receptionist, unfailingly sunny even with the most difficult clients. Anyone who reduced her to tears needed to be put in their place without delay. She held out an imperative