Midnight Wedding. Sophie Weston
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of amusement in the corridor. Now she seized upon the name.
‘Armour, huh?’ She placed herself in front of him and said loudly, ‘Lunch for ten.’
He was blank. ‘What?’
Silently she held the delivery docket out to him.
At least he looked at her then. He was impatient. He did not take the docket. But he looked.
‘Yes?’ If it was possible to sound more indifferent, Holly could not imagine it.
She could have danced with fury.
The trouble was, she knew what he was seeing and it was not impressive. The white buttoned chef’s jacket was grubby after a morning’s rapid deliveries through this busy part of Paris. And the baseball cap that covered her unruly golden-brown hair was frankly tatty.
She stuck her chin in the air and stood her ground. ‘I want a signature for the delivery,’ she said truculently, adding with a respect that was as unconvincing as it was belated, ‘sir.’
The man’s eyes narrowed, arrested. Señora Martinez looked shocked.
‘My good child—’ his voice was a drawling insult ‘—what in hell would I do with lunch for ten?’
Holly’s temper went through the top of her head.
She said sweetly, ‘I don’t care if you take every single piece of quiche Lorraine and feed it to the pigeons. I want my signature.’
He had a long curly mouth. It made him look mocking without even trying.
‘On the contrary. You want my signature. And believe me, no one gets that without working for it.’
Holly ground her teeth.
Señora Martinez intervened fast. ‘Here is a misunderstanding.’ Her perfect English was slipping under stress. ‘The food is for the Committee’s meeting with Mr Armour. It is I who ordered it.’ She grabbed the docket and leaned it against her knee to scribble a signature.
Holly hardly looked at her.
‘Mr Armour’s meeting?’ she said, letting her eyes drift up and down his tall figure with barely disguised scorn. ‘Well, God bless America.’
Señora Martinez and Ramon exchanged alarmed glances. Gorgeous Jack, by contrast, began to look as if he was enjoying himself.
‘Oh? Why?’
‘The only nation in the world,’ said Holly quoting her employer, gourmet chef Pierre, ‘to make eating at the conference table a moral imperative.’
There was a startled silence. Holly pulled the peak of her baseball cap down defiantly.
The Greek god certainly looked like the sort of man who would refuse to permit lunch-breaks until the world fell into line. Yet somehow, with those unreadable eyes fixed on her, Holly felt as if she had made a very big mistake. And a complete fool of herself into the bargain.
Then he shrugged, confirming all Holly’s prejudices about his nationality and his indifference to food.
‘So I’m the king of the carry-out. What does that make you?’
Holly stared, taken aback.
‘I guess you don’t like the stuff,’ he suggested. ‘You just sell it.’
Oh, he was so confident, so pleased with himself, all high slanting cheekbones and black laughter. She had seen arrogance like that before.
Her brother-in-law and his best crony, the guy who ran her father’s company, had both been like that. So certain that they were right; so certain that the awkward, illegitimate newcomer would realise it in the end and fall into line. Suddenly Holly wanted to scream at all of them. She wanted to so much she choked on it.
He smiled. ‘Game, set and match to the slob who gets the pizza, huh?’ And turned away.
Behind her Ramon laughed. ‘Ouch.’
Holly flushed furiously. She could feel her ears tingle with it. There was a microsecond when she wanted to throw things, make him eat his words, make him look at her. Look and see more than a delivery robot.
Then the practical Holly reasserted herself. Reluctantly she curbed her temper. Pierre would never forgive her if she kicked a client. He might even sack her and she needed the job. She would have to get out of there before the temptation to hit him became overwhelming.
She almost snatched the docket from Señora Martinez and stuffed it into the canvas bag. It was full of flyers for the club where she worked in the evening. She was supposed to be circulating them. She had almost forgotten until now. With a gasp of guilt, she looked at her watch, clutched the bag to her and fled.
Another black mark in a bad, bad day.
First, a late night playing the flute at Le Club Thaïs had made her oversleep. Then there had been a delay on the Metro. By the time she’d got to work Chef Pierre had been growling with fury over intruders who interrupted his baking, the phone had been ringing off the wall and no one had even started to make up the day’s orders.
And then, to cap it all, a tall dark stranger who looked as if he’d just stepped out of a dream, had scored an easy point off her because she’d let her temper out of its cage.
No more temper, Holly vowed, punching the elevator button as if it were a personal enemy. ‘No more smart remarks.’
‘A message from the Chair, Mr Armour.’
Señora Martinez was wary as she handed over a sheet of paper. The Chair always said Jack Armour was a tough negotiator but Elena Martinez had never seen him anything other than charming before. She did not know why he had challenged the young delivery girl like that. She felt sorry for her.
Jack opened the paper and scanned it rapidly.
‘You and I,’ he told Ramon in a dry voice, ‘have got the afternoon off. The committee does not want us back.’
Ramon looked as if he might cry.
Elena Martinez said helplessly, ‘But of course you are welcome to…’ She gestured at the boxes Holly had brought.
Jack grinned suddenly. ‘No, thanks. We’ll pass on the picnic. The committee can have our share.’ He buffeted Ramon lightly between the shoulder blades. ‘No need to look like that. We can go play, now.’
Roman protested. ‘But the committee, the contract…’
Jack laughed aloud. ‘The committee has my mobile number and the contract is on the table. They can call when they’re willing to sign.’
On which magnificent announcement, he swept Ramon out of the office and into the elevator.
‘We should have stuck around,’ objected Ramon as they descended to the ground floor. ‘We should have gatecrashed that bloody committee again. We should—’
‘Cool it, Ramon.’
‘But—’
‘Wait until we get out of the building.’
‘What?’
Jack cast a meaning look at the closed-circuit camera above their head. Ramon subsided.
Jack tapped his fingers on the wood panelling.
‘I’ve had three months up to my neck in mud and bureaucracy. I can use some major frivolity. Paris is good for that.’
Ramon hunched his shoulders. ‘What sort of frivolity?’
‘Good food, great wine, music.’
‘That means you’re going to cut the Combined Agencies’ dinner,’ Ramon diagnosed gloomily. ‘I’ll have to do it on my own again. You know I hate these things.’
Jack was unimpressed. ‘Take a date.’
‘Who