Page 13 of One Summer Weekend
‘Give me a break, Alicia.’
In reply, I picked up my bag and made for the door. Whether his words were a meaningless aside or a serious request, it was best to leave well alone.
We wentdown the monstrous staircase and out into the sticky evening air. I’d have picked out his big flashy car instantly, even if it hadn’t been parked in the chief executive’s designated space. He opened the passenger door and held out his hand for my bag. I gave him my jacket, too – but felt no cooler in my long-sleeved, high-necked shirt. I almost suggested we went back to my hotel so that I could change– except that he might take that as blatant encouragement. I fastened my belt, settled back into the leather seat – and found that it reclined a little too much for my liking. I searched quickly for a lever to adjust it.
‘Need some help?’ The black velvet was back, and threaded with amusement. ‘Which way do you want me to adjust it?’
‘Upright, of course,’ I said edgily, banishing anythoughts of the alternative. As a further precaution, I slanted my legs away from him – just in case he had to reach over and fumble under my seat. But it was all done with the press of a button.
Once he’d accelerated away from Leo Components, he loosened his tie and turned up the air conditioning. ‘Not too breezy?’
‘No, it’s fine.’ We left the industrial estate behind and took anunfamiliar route among terraces of red-brick houses, their scraps of garden struggling into summer bloom. ‘Where are we going?’
‘The best Italian this side of Manchester.’ He glanced across at me. ‘Do you like pasta? I meant to check.’
‘That's fine,’ I said, wondering what constituted a good Italian restaurant in Grimshaw. And when we drew up outside an unassuming little place in themiddle of a row of shops, it looked as though my worst fears were realised. Especially since its name, Corleone’s, rang a bell – and not just because I’d sat through threeGodfatherfilms. I recalled something from my research, an incident involving Jack Smith, a model called Tracey Turnbull and Tracey’s ex, a Manchester United player. The ex had eventually been escorted off the premises; shortlyafterwards Jack had left with Tracey – and a black eye.
Once we were inside, however, I couldn’t help warming to the place: cream walls, dark wooden floor and furniture – a sort of rustic chic. We were greeted cordially by the manager and shown to a large alcove, with some mumbling about ‘Signor Jack’s usual table’. Surprise, surprise. Here the lighting was more subdued, the ambience moreintimate: a scene set for seduction.
As we sat down, I saw that we were lucky to get in; the restaurant was packed. A thought crossed my mind, and my lips tightened. ‘Had you already booked this table for tonight?’
He pretended to study the wine list. ‘Do you prefer red or white? I can recommend—’
‘I prefer you to be straight with me.’
That made him look up. ‘Do you? Iwonder.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘Which means?’
‘Which means yes, I booked the table last week.’
That wasn’t what my second question referred to, but I let it pass. ‘So this was all planned?’
‘Not exactly, more on the off chance.’ He bent his head over the wine list again. ‘Do you fancy sharing a bottle of Chianti?’
The off chance – of what? That dinner in his usual restaurantat his usual table would result in the usual outcome?
‘No, thank you,’ I said coldly.
‘Don’t you drink alcohol?’
‘Not while I’m working.’
‘Fair enough.’
We ordered drinks: a beer for him, a lime and soda for me. The waiter greeted him like an old friend, and me with undisguised curiosity. To show that this was a business meeting and nothing more, I took out my notebookand placed it on the table in a prominent position.
We reviewed our menus in silence. When the waiter returned, I looked up – and found Jack staring at me.
A shiver coursed through me. This was just like the first dinner with Troy, long ago in LA. Oh, not in every detail – for a start, the restaurant had been Peruvian, not Italian – but the eyes holding mine in the candlelight wereequally magnetic, the scrutiny of a stranger equally unnerving. Or perhaps, as then, it was more a feeling of intoxication …
‘Everything okay? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’ Jack’s voice was soft, almost tender.
I shrank back in my chair, and shut the menu with a snap. ‘I’ll have the rigatoni, with a side salad.’
The waiter nodded. ‘Thank you, Signorina. And for you,Signor Jack?’
‘The usual, please, Luigi.’
