Page 39 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
Maybe this had been a mistake. She’d been ready twenty minutes early, then she’d paced around her small room, her mind bouncing between the two poles — stay or go.
Then she’d seen the car pull into the car park in front of the hotel, and she’d told herself firmly not to be a coward. She could cope with a man like Paul Channing.
But now, in the quiet confines of the car, she wasn’t sure that she could.
She’d seen him in casual jeans and sweater, and in —oh boy! — that clinging wetsuit. Tonight he was wearing a dark-blue suit, stylishly cut and immaculately tailored over those wide shoulders.
But even the best of tailoring couldn’t disguise that aura of lithe male power, like a panther prowling the fringes of the jungle. She’d seen it in action — an internet search had shown her a clip of him scoring a Championship League Goal of the Season, several years ago.
He’d slid past three defenders with an effortless, almost laconic grace, and arced the ball from over thirty yards out to curl it round the goalkeeper and into the back of the net.
She’d probably watched that clip at least a dozen times.
* * *
Springsteen was singing mournfully about his ’69 Chevvy as Paul turned the car into the gravelled car park in front of a beautiful seventeenth-century manor house — two storeys, with square chimneys and a slate-tiled roof, ivy clinging to the grey stone walls. The latticed windows glowed a warm amber, and the front door was standing open in welcome.
“Very nice,” she approved.
“Three for three?”
She laughed, nodding.
He came round to open her door, and they scampered through the rain to the shelter of the stone porch. The entrance hall was as beautiful as the exterior. The gleaming dark wood of the floor contrasted beautifully with the rich walnut wainscoting on the walls which were hung with gilt-framed portraits of fine ladies and gentlemen.
A large well-polished table stood in the centre of the room, holding a fabulous display of lilies and roses beneath a chandelier worthy of Versailles hanging from the high coffered ceiling.
The imposing head waiter came forward with a smile. “Ah, Mr Channing. We have your usual table.”
“Thank you.”
Jess shot him a narrowed look. “You bring all your girlfriends here? You just lost a point.”
He returned her one of those bland smiles. “Not all my girlfriends. And not always girlfriends.”
She shook her head. “No, you don’t get the point back.”
The head waiter glanced from one to the other, slightly puzzled by the exchange. “Um . . . this way, please.”
They followed him into the dining room. This was the last word in elegance. Softly lit by antique-style sconces, the walls were panelled to the ceiling in that rich dark walnut and the floor was covered with a carpet in subtle shades of olive-green and gold.
The circular tables were covered in pristine white cloths over olive-green table skirts which matched the velvet curtains and the cushioned chairs. Gleaming crystal glasses and white tableware graced the tables, each holding a centrepiece of white roses.
The head waiter led them to a corner table and produced two menus in olive-green leather binders.
“Ah, a point awarded for a proper menu,” Jess accorded. “Not some stupid edgy thing in chalk on a garden spade.”
Paul laughed at that. “Certainly not.”
Jess forced herself to focus on the menu, not the man sitting opposite her, but that was far from easy. He was wearing a pale-blue shirt, the collar open, and she could just glimpse a smattering of dark curling hair at the base of his throat.
And his hands were strong and sensitive. They looked like hands that would know how to caress a woman’s body . . .
But it was more than just a physical attraction that tugged at her. She liked his sense of humour, and she liked that he got hers. Glenn could sometimes get annoyed when she teased him.
She was going to have to be careful, she reminded herself firmly. She could be standing on a very slippery slope.
Pushing those troublesome thoughts from her mind, she glanced through the menu. The selection was small, but it looked delicious. Jess chose pulled crab with crème fraîche and chives for a starter, followed by Suffolk lamb with mint and white asparagus. Paul opted for fillet of veal with fingerling potatoes and rapini.
