The Love Letter (22 page)

When Anton swaggered back, she lowered the standard to crotch-watching, simply because she knew Byrne was on her case. He tactfully said nothing.

The pudding list read so seductively it reignited her food lust, but she was damned if she’d show it.

‘I’ll pass.’ She handed it back to Anton when he returned, feeling the bittersweet pinch of abstinence.

Ignoring her, Byrne ordered the dessert tasting menu for two. Legs was about to protest, but remembered that she was supposed to be helping the restaurant get a Michelin star and shut up. She’d already done enough damage.

‘I have a sweet tooth.’ He flashed his first smile in over an hour. ‘You?’

‘Just a sharp tongue.’

‘To match the acid wit, I take it?’ His gaze held hers.

‘I was under the impression that you find my brand of humour very silly?’

The smile widened with laughter. ‘Silliness is an underrated virtue. I take life far too seriously, Heavenly Pony, don’t you think?’

‘Maybe you’ve been reading too many miserable faces lately?’

‘I like the one I’m reading now.’ His eyes didn’t leave hers.

‘Not the usual trash then?’ She suddenly didn’t know what to do with her face.

‘I thought it was fairly predictable at first, but it keeps taking me by surprise, and now I just can’t figure out what happens next.’

Still under excitingly close scrutiny, Legs was struggling not to twitch and go cross-eyed as all her facial muscles developed hitherto unknown ticks. ‘Probably got a lot of nasty plot twists and a sting in its tale,’ she blustered. ‘But then everyone lives happily ever after. Not really your thing, I should imagine.’

Those big, smouldering coal eyes glowed into hers. ‘So you don’t think I like happy endings, Heavenly Pony?’

He was the one getting a bit drunk now, she realised.

While she hadn’t exactly sobered up, she had enough alarm bells ringing in her head to keep her senses on amber alert and advise extreme caution.

‘I don’t know you well enough to judge.’

Still his eyes stayed locked on hers. He said nothing, and Legs suddenly found it quite impossible to look away.

‘I never judge a book by its cover,’ she went on nervously, ‘especially in a restaurant with so many covers.’

The candle between them was guttering. Dropping eye contact at last, Byrne ran a finger across the flickering yellow flame.

Legs was in nervous gabble mode now, ‘I always used to wonder as a kid why they called it a naked flame when there were never any dressed flames. I suppose all their clothes would burn off.’

‘Are old flames best naked or dressed, I wonder?’ he asked quietly.

She swallowed uncomfortably.

Up came the eyes again, gaze trapping hers, ‘Aren’t you grown up enough to know not to play with fire, Allegra?’

Legs wasn’t certain whether he was talking about the Francis situation, or something much closer to home that was threatening to ignite the table between them right now. She heard the alarm bells in her head again, this time joined by the screech of a smoke detector. She needed Conrad to come marching into the restaurant dressed as a firefighter, hose unrolled ready to douse the man who was now playing with her emotions as carelessly as a kid with matches shooting out sparks.

Even from their brief acquaintance, Legs saw that Byrne was arrogant, circuitous, and dangerously sexy. He had one-night-stand eyes and he had the better room. He’d be gone in the morning and she would never have to see him again.

I must be drunk to be this tempted, she realised giddily. Alcohol always fuelled her flirtatious streak.

A soft touch against her bare arm almost sent her into orbit as she leapt away, pulses thrumming.

But it was only Anton the waiter leaning past her to place the taster menu on the table, the serviette on his arm brushing her skin.

‘It’s just desserts, Allegra.’ Byrne smiled across at her, those coal and fire eyes dancing like the flame of the guttering candle.

‘Just desserts,’ she repeated, looking at them, grateful to have more food as a distraction.

Greed overcame her once more as she regarded the tempting little ceramic miniatures and thimble-sized glasses, like doll’s-house food. Her spoon clashed with Byrne’s as they dived in, hooking it clean out of his hand. An entire pot of honeycomb sorbet was upended and spilled across the table. Without thinking, she dabbed her finger into the sweet, foamy spatter on the tablecloth directly in front of her and sucked it appreciatively.

She sensed Byrne’s intent gaze resting on her.

‘Sorry – that was really sluttish.’ She reached for her napkin. ‘I’m not normally this badly behaved.’

‘That’s a shame.’ His voice was so quiet she could barely hear it.

The guttering candle let out a long, low hiss like a hot breath, then crackled as the fat end of the wick spluttered before bursting gaily into a brighter, death-throe flame. A lifelong flirt like Legs struggled not to cup her hands and breathe on the flames to fan them, however dangerous she knew that to be.

Then, looking up, she suddenly realised that the fire was out of control already.

His eyes trapped hers, and in that instant the spark between them combusted horribly and inappropriately, at least it did on Legs’ side of the table. The water cooler office fantasy was nothing on this level of total, wipe-out attraction. Adrenalin and pheromones fuelled the blaze, as she felt lust grip her in a firefighter’s lift. She wanted to climb across the table and seduce him there and then. With a monumental effort, she fought the wine and sugar rush that was warping her brain, reminding herself she had never had a one-night stand, and this was not the weekend to start.

It had been an over-emotional twenty-four hours, she told herself. Her craving for escapism had got out of control; being away from Conrad had made her weak-willed and fantasist. She needed to go to bed with a good book, not a stranger.

Byrne was still watching her face: ‘Why do I have a feeling I’ve just reached a row of dots?’

Legs looked at him in confusion. ‘I – um – I think I should – that is—’

A drumbeat started up in the main pub, making them both jump.
Boom, boom, boom.

It broke the tension, like a gun blowing out a lock. Legs knew she had just seconds to make her escape or her sugar rush lust would take over again.

‘You finish pudding; I’ll order our coffees at the bar!’ A triple espresso was just the chastity belt she needed. She fled with relieved glee, his eyes burning holes through her back.

Abandoning him to his rosewater and vanilla crème brûlée as she weaved away through the crowded tables, she distinctly heard him let out a long sigh, crack his spoon through the crisp caramel top and say, ‘That’s what I meant …’

Mannequin cool now melting in the face of an overbooked restaurant and mutinously hungover chef, Nonny intercepted Legs en route to the bar. ‘Guy is in pieces. Whatever were you
thinking
of ordering the paella?’

‘You said to avoid the crab. Byrne loved it.’

‘He’d better give us a Michelin star,’ Nonny fretted. ‘I’ve had to turn away our eight o’clock couple twice, and now I’ve lost them.’

Glancing up at the clock, Legs realised it was well past nine.

She still felt horribly squiffy as she weaved through to the bar to order coffee as the live act struck up, a jolly bluegrass band.

‘What did Guy mean they were well connected?’ She asked Tongue Piercing, who was looking rattled as she manned the optics.

‘Check out the guitarist,’ she lisped back, nodding at a chunky,
bearded figure in dark glasses, hunched over a steel-stringed Gibson.

‘Is that who I think it is?’ she asked, but TP was gone.

Nursing two espressos and a most probably ill-advised Dark and Stormy Night-cap offered on the house, Legs backed into a dark corner, hoping Byrne didn’t follow her and equally praying he did.

He did, looking sexy as hell, despite carrying a mock crock handbag.

‘Yours I believe.’ He handed it over and claimed a coffee, wincing at the volume of the band.

‘Check out the guitarist,’ she muttered in his ear, then wished she hadn’t because he smelled intoxicatingly good.

‘Am I supposed to know him?’

‘Biggest hit of the decade. Married to a Hollywood superstar and yoga-juicing advocate. Has an organic farm in the Cotswolds. Voted world’s sexiest man at least twice …’

But Byrne wasn’t looking at the stage. He was looking into her face again and threatening to combust the room around them. Legs was certain the sparks coming off them would ignite her own clothing any minute, particularly as so much of it was artificial fibre.

Grasping around for something to say to douse the rising heat, she remembered her promise to her landlord. ‘Guy wants me to sing with the band later,’ she spluttered, sounding like an
X Factor
wannabe, but at least it dampened the flames, particularly as she had to repeat it three times before Byrne could hear over the music.

‘You sing?’ he shouted back.

‘After a fashion; my parents had me classically trained as a child, but I’ve never had my sister’s musical talent. I used to perform here with friends sometimes. The A&R men stayed away.’ Her voice was going hoarse trying to be heard.

He steered her further into a dark recess. ‘So you wanted to be
a famous rock star?’ He spoke into her ear, audible at last. She jumped away because her ear was scorching hornily, only to find the inferno was still blazing away in his eyes.

‘For about five minutes,’ she laughed nervously, glancing at the legend on stage. ‘I could never cope with his life. If he sneezes, somebody sells the snot on eBay. Count the camera phones.’

Now they looked there were at least twenty, and Pierced Tongue was brazenly waving an HD camcorder over the bar.

‘This will be all over YouTube by midnight.’

‘So why is he here?’

‘Because this is the closest to the old days he’s ever going to get. Nobody’s mobbing him, the paparazzi haven’t heard he’s here and it’s too far to drive even if they did. Guy and Nonny know everybody who’s anybody and tell nobody. That’s a rare thing. I am the opposite.’ She blushed as she realised she was leaning right up against him and had no idea how she’d got there. She jumped hastily away. ‘I’m a hopeless blabbermouth, and would make a lousy celebrity,’ she finished hurriedly.

‘Hard to keep secrets if you’re famous.’ He watched her closely, his eyes like flame-throwers lighting up her libido.

‘All one’s bad habits would be exposed like a flash,’ she agreed, backing quickly out of the recess so the music got too loud to speak and the clammy heat of the room soothed her lust-scorched skin.

Bad, bad habits like flirtatious, fickle all-out desire for a complete stranger, she told herself in a panic. She was practically sober again now, high grade espresso flushing her veins. She reminded herself that she was still in a relationship with Conrad and possibly still in love with Francis too, and life was much too complicated already.

Yet something kept her close to Byrne’s orbit as he leaned against the back wall, finishing his coffee.

The lead singer was shouting out a catchy song about sowing seeds. Needing to dance to discharge, Legs bounced along enthusiastically and whooped at rhythmic intervals, showing off like mad
but only succeeding in making Byrne back further away as her flailing arms threatened to upend his cup.

‘You’re right,’ she called across to him. ‘You do take life too seriously.’ She let out a whoop, feet tapping, indicating for him to come and dance.

He shook his head with a tight smile then nodded towards the door and mouthed: ‘Bed.’

Legs panted up to him. ‘Spoilsport. I haven’t even sung yet – not that I’m sure I’m up to singing in public right now.’

‘So make your excuses and leave,’ he suggested, his face giving nothing away.

It sounded like an invitation, Legs realised excitedly. Perhaps he wanted her to grant him a private audience. Terrified by the heat this idea sent coursing through her, she shook her head violently. ‘I can’t let Guy down.’

‘Do you sing like you dance?’ he asked, eyeing the stage with concern.

Legs suddenly realised that he might not be trying to drag her to bed after all, at least not his bed; he was simply eager to avoid the embarrassment of witnessing her making a fool of herself in front of a mic.

Anger chased disappointment straight to her outspoken mouth. ‘I sing like I make love, with all my heart and never in public places unless I’m drunk. In fact, I need another drink. Mine’s a Dark and Stormy Night.’

He didn’t take the hint. Cheeks hollowing, he gave the band a last glance, all the time melting away from her. He was leaving, she realised. Suddenly she couldn’t bear the idea. He was almost out of the room now. She had no idea what she wanted to say, except that she didn’t want him to go. She marked him to the door.

‘I love to sing, I love to drink Scotch.’ She put on her best George Burns accent, resorting to Francis’s old tactic of quoting for the want of emoting. ‘Most people would rather hear me drink Scotch.’