Page 12 of A Class Act

‘Ice cream?’

‘Home-made?’ I smiled.

‘Is there any better?’

‘Well, I’m not averse to a Magnum if pushed.’

Fabian laughed, cleared away the remains of the picnic before opening some sort of thermos cool box. ‘Hmm.’ He frowned, looking down. ‘Not quite as hard as I’d have liked.’

For some childish reason, that made me want to titter and I had to look away, folding the starched linen napkin Fabian had passed me earlier. Grow up, Robyn, I silently chastised myself. This man is a sophisticated adult: a barrister, the son of England and Wales’s Lord Chief Justice.

I turned, the actor in me coming to the rescue as I offered a totally straight face in Fabian’s direction, only to find him laughing himself. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised, unable to stop. ‘So sorry.’ He turned to the box, scooping out a soft spoonful of vanilla ice cream before standing and moving right over to where I was sitting. ‘Now,’ he ordered, ‘try this. Hang on, close your eyes…’

‘My eyes?’

‘Yes. You can’t savour the exquisite vanilla taste if your other senses are still on full alert.’

‘I cansmellthe vanilla,’ I argued. I could also feel my pulse racing, my heart going nineteen to the dozen.

‘Close your eyes,’ he insisted again.

I did as I was told, parting my lips slightly, anticipating sweet, vanilla-flavoured coldness.

Instead, there was a soft touch of cotton as his shirt brushed my bare arm, followed by warm, equally soft, lips on my own. My eyes fluttered open in surprise, but Fabian smiled. ‘Just an experiment,’ he explained, seriously. ‘I read ice cream tastes so much better and colder if alternating with something warm.’ He offered the spoon and, laughing, I licked the ice cream this time, but he leaned forwards, kissing my mouth once again until I wasn’t sure which was the kiss and which was ice cream, both so utterly delicious I truly wondered if I’d died and gone to heaven.

5

We stayed on the riverbank that wonderful warm and sunny afternoon for hours, chasing after Boris, who was intent on pinching the remains of the picnic, nibbling on a selection of French cheese and fruit – grapes, fresh lychees, lusciously dark crimson cherries – and chatting, but Fabian didn’t kiss me again. It was as if he’d given me a taste of something sweet and delicious and was now withdrawing the treat. Whether this was a deliberate tactic – remember, I’d seen him in action in court – or whether the two kisses were enough to make him realise he didn’t relish more, I was quite unable to work out.

As if to reinforce the second option, Fabian glanced at his watch and suddenly jumped up. ‘Goodness, I didn’t realise the time. Are you working at the restaurant this evening? I need to get you back.’

‘No, I rarely work Sundays – Sunday’s my day for sorting myself out for the coming week, going over routines at the gym – I’m lucky: my friend owns Xander’s gym on Prestbury Street and lets me in free of charge. Anyway, you know, Sundays are for the usual stuff.’

Fabian nodded. ‘Me too, I’m afraid.’

‘Going over routines at the gym?’ I quipped, using humour to keep a smile on my face when I had the awful feeling that my Sunday spent with Fabian Carrington was about to fizzle and I should log it as a one-off. A Sunday with a beautiful, smart and interesting man – who, in reality, was way out of my league.

He laughed. ‘I have a potentially very heavy case I’m going to be working on over the next few weeks. I really need to get back to London and get stuck in.’

I jumped up, hoping he might take my hand and pull me back down beside him on the picnic blanket, but he stood, packed away the remains of the cheese and prodded Boris, who was sleeping soundly in the shade of a great oak, gently with his foot.

‘All ready?’

We strolled back with Boris walking sedately on the lead, any conversation that of polite strangers.

The ice-cream kisses might never have happened.

‘Oh.’ Fabian stopped as we approached the house to find a large red flashy car pulled up at the side of Fabian’s silver Porsche. ‘My brother appears to be home.’

‘Weren’t you expecting him?’

‘Not really. Come on, I’ll sort the remains of the picnic stuff and grab my keys.’

I wasn’t quite sure if that was an invitation to follow Fabian back into the house or remain where I was in the garden, but Boris, whining and pulling on the lead, made the decision for me and I followed in Fabian’s wake through the open front door.

A sandy-haired man, without Fabian’s devastating good looks but obviously his brother, was sitting at the kitchen table, feet up on the chair opposite, glued to the football match on the small TV on the wall, a huge doorstep of a chicken sandwich in one hand and a bottled beer in the other.

‘Didn’t know you were home?’ Fabian was saying as he emptied the picnic basket, wrapping cheese and quiche neatlybefore replacing them back in the huge stainless-steel American fridge.

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