The Carlotta Diamond. Lee Wilkinson
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Christie?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good morning. My name’s Simon Farringdon…’ His voice was clear and low-pitched. An attractive voice.
‘How can I help you, Mr Farringdon?’ she asked pleasantly.
‘I got in touch with you recently, on my grandfather’s behalf, concerning a set of rather obscure books, Par le Fer et la Flamme, by the eighteenth-century writer Claude Bayeaux…’
‘Of course…I’m so sorry, I’m afraid for a moment your name didn’t register. Your grandfather must be Sir Nigel Bell-Farringdon?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m pleased to say I’ve managed to find the volumes he wants.’
‘Excellent! He’ll be delighted.’
His white smile sent little shivers chasing up and down her spine.
‘I’m hoping they’ll be delivered later this morning. But if not, they’ll certainly—’
‘Excuse me,’ a shrill, impatient voice broke in, ‘but do you have a copy of The Old Fig Tree…?’
Dragging her gaze away from Simon Farringdon, Charlotte found there were several people waiting.
‘It’s by Rachel Radford,’ the woman went on.
‘If you just give me a minute, I’ll check,’ Charlotte assured her politely.
‘I haven’t got a lot of time.’
Simon Farringdon said quickly, ‘As you’re obviously up to the neck, and I’d like a chance to discuss the books with you, perhaps you’ll have lunch with me?’
‘I’m afraid my assistant is on holiday until tomorrow, so I won’t be able to leave the shop,’ Charlotte said regretfully.
‘In that case, dinner tonight. If you give me your address I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.’
It wasn’t until later that she found herself wondering at his calm certainty, how sure of himself he’d been.
Now, feeling a strange surge of excitement, she found herself saying, ‘I live above the shop.’
‘Seven-thirty, then.’ He sketched a brief salute and was gone.
The woman looked pointedly at her watch.
‘I’m sorry,’ Charlotte apologised. ‘I’ll only be a moment or two.’
For the remainder of the day she was on the go constantly, managing only a snatched sandwich and a cup of coffee at noon.
Though there was no time for actually thinking, Simon Farringdon stayed in her consciousness like a burr clung to clothing.
It was almost a quarter to seven before the last customer departed and she was able to lock the door. Dog-tired, both mentally and physically, she climbed the stairs back to the flat to shower and change.
Normally, feeling as she did, she would have looked forward to a quiet night by the fire, but now she felt a fresh surge of excitement and anticipation at the thought of dining with Simon Farringdon.
Disconcerted by his effect on her, she told herself crossly not to be a fool. This wasn’t a date, it was simply a business dinner.
But even that stern reminder failed to dim her sense of expectancy.
Wondering where he was likely to take her, she was trying to decide between a midnight-blue dinner dress and a simple black sheath, when, catching sight of the dress she had worn the previous evening, she realised with a little shock of surprise that she hadn’t given Rudy a single thought.
Simon Farringdon’s attractive face and those extraordinary green-gold eyes had driven everything else from her mind.
How could she have believed herself on the verge of falling in love with one man, and within twenty-four hours be obsessed by thoughts of another? Especially a man she had met only briefly.
It wasn’t like her at all.
Finally deciding on the black sheath, she dressed and—unusually for her, having very little personal vanity—made up her face with care.
Then, hoping for a businesslike look, she re-coiled her cloud of dark hair into a chignon. A style that, had she known it, emphasised her long neck and pure bone structure and gave her an appealing air of fragility in spite of her height.
She had just slipped into her coat and picked up her bag when the doorbell rang. Feeling ridiculously nervous, like a girl on her first date, she took a quick glance out of the window. A sleek silver car was standing by the kerb.
As she hurried down the stairs to open the door it occurred to her that, having magnified his image in her mind into something special, seeing him again she could well be disappointed.
She wasn’t. If anything the impact was stronger.
Dressed in a well-cut dinner jacket, his tanned face smoothly shaven, the light from the street lamp gilding his corn-coloured hair, he would have been almost any woman’s dream escort.
Taking her hand, he said, ‘You look absolutely delightful, Miss Christie.’
He seemed even taller and more charismatic than she remembered, and her voice wasn’t quite steady as she said, ‘Thank you, Mr Farringdon.’
‘Won’t you call me Simon?’
‘If you’ll call me Charlotte.’
‘It’s a deal.’ He smiled at her and her heart turned over. ‘By the way, I’ve reserved a table at Carmichaels. I hope you approve?’
Carmichaels was one of the smartest dining and dancing places in London.
With an outmoded courtesy that she found quite charming, he helped her into the car. Then, sliding in beside her, he reached over to fasten her seat belt. Just for an instant his arm brushed her breasts.
That touch, brief as it was, sent heat running through her and made every single nerve in her body leap uncontrollably.
Her cheeks grew hot and, afraid he would notice, she turned her head and stared resolutely out of the side-window while he fastened his own belt.
She was still tingling when the engine purred into life and, having checked his mirror, he pulled out to join the traffic stream.
Totally thrown by his overpowering masculinity, and her instinctive feminine response to it, Charlotte found herself thinking in startled wonder that no other man had ever made her feel like this.
Not even Rudy.
When she was sure she could keep her voice steady, striving to sound cool and businesslike, she said, ‘I’m pleased to say the books your grandfather wanted were delivered this morning.’
‘That’s great. How many volumes are there? Apart from noting their publication in 1756, the family archives were unclear as to the precise number.’
‘There are six in the set.’
‘Have you had a chance to look at them yet?’
‘Only a brief glance, but they appear to be in excellent condition. Of course they’re a collector’s item, and rare, which is reflected in the price,’ Charlotte commented.
‘Apart from some historical detail I doubt if they would be of much interest to anyone but the Farringdon family or a collector,’ he replied.
‘I must admit I’m curious to know how they came to be written.’
‘In March 1744 Claude Bayeaux, writer and poet, married Elizabeth Farringdon, and, discovering that there were strong French connections—several of the Farringdon men had taken French wives—began to research the family history. Apparently he found it absorbing, and those six volumes—which took