LITMIR.BIZ

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venue, it smacked of money and privilege—public school, Oxbridge, skiing in the winter, taking the family yacht to Monte Carlo in the summer.

      In such a setting Charlotte could easily have felt underdressed and overwhelmed, but strangely enough she didn’t. With Simon Farringdon’s hand at her waist, she felt supremely confident.

      When they had been greeted with deference and her coat had been whisked away, they were shown to a table on the edge of the dance floor.

      Most of the other tables were occupied, and a few couples were already dancing to an old Jerome Kern tune played by a six-piece orchestra.

      As soon as they were seated, and had been handed gilt-edged menus, the wine waiter appeared with a bottle of Bollinger’s Recemment Degorge in an ice bucket. Having eased out the cork, he poured the sparkling wine, and waited for Farringdon’s nod of approval before moving away.

      Smiling at Charlotte, Simon lifted his glass in a silent toast.

      She smiled back and took a sip. It was the finest champagne she had ever tasted, and she said so.

      ‘I hoped you’d like it.’ He looked straight into her long-lashed eyes, eyes of a clear dark grey with an even darker ring round the iris.

      His look was so direct it was more like being touched than looked at. After a moment, her head spinning, she dragged her gaze away and tried to concentrate on the menu.

      God, but she was lovely, he thought, studying that haunting heart-shaped face with its wide mouth and delicately pointed chin, the neat little ears tucked close to her well-shaped head and that long, graceful neck…

      Now he knew what poets meant by swan-like.

      And though she might have neither morals nor scruples, she had class. She wasn’t the kind of woman he could have paid off, even if the Carlotta Stone hadn’t been rightfully hers. So that left him with only one alternative. To seduce her away from Rudy.

      Which would be no hardship.

      Glancing up, she was shaken afresh to find that Simon was still studying her closely, a lick of flame in his eyes that made her stomach clench.

      ‘Seen anything you fancy?’ he asked smoothly, indicating the menu.

      ‘Lots. I just can’t decide.’ To her annoyance, she sounded breathless.

      ‘Do you like fish?’

      ‘Oh, yes.’

      ‘Then may I suggest Sole Veronique, followed perhaps by the blackcurrant cheesecake?’

      ‘Sounds delicious,’ she agreed.

      His glance brought the waiter hurrying.

      When their order had been given and they were alone once more, he asked, ‘Is there a current boyfriend?’

      Taken by surprise, she stammered, ‘N-not exactly.’

      He waited, his eyes on her face.

      When she made no attempt to elaborate, he said, ‘Tell me about yourself. What made you decide to keep a bookshop?’

      ‘I’ve always liked books, so it seemed the right thing to do, especially as I had quite a lot of stock that I’d inherited from my mother.’

      He raised a brow in tacit enquiry.

      ‘She used to run a second-hand bookshop in Chelsea before she remarried and went to live in Australia,’ Charlotte explained. ‘I’d hoped to take over her business when I left college, but the premises were due for demolition, so when I was offered a lease on the shop I have now and the accommodation above it, which was quite nicely furnished, I snapped it up.’

      ‘And it’s worked well?’

      ‘Yes, very well indeed. At first I had a bit of a struggle financially, but now sales are up and I’m able to afford an assistant.’

      ‘How long have you been in business?’

      ‘About two and a half years.’

      ‘Not bad going,’ he said admiringly.

      As the orchestra started to play a quickstep, he rose to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Would you care to dance?’

      The mere thought of being held in his arms made her go funny all over, and as she hesitated he added with the faintest hint of derision, ‘Or perhaps you only disco?’

      ‘I’d love to dance,’ she said coolly. Rising to her feet, she put her hand in his and quivered as shock waves ran through her.

      CHAPTER THREE

      DRAWING her into his arms, Simon held her firmly, but not too tightly, nor too closely. Even so her pulses began to race and her knees turned to jelly.

      She sent up a silent prayer of thanks that although she was shaken, and hadn’t danced for some time, she had enough experience not to miss a step or stumble.

      Which was just as well, as he proved to be an extremely good dancer, light on his feet and innately graceful, with a natural sense of timing and rhythm.

      Though Charlotte was five feet eight inches in her stockinged feet, the top of her head was just on a level with his mouth. Used to being as tall as her partner, if not taller, she found this heightened her newly awakened sense of femininity.

      As they moved in perfect unison round the floor, she glanced up, and, seeing his quizzical expression, felt a little thrill of triumph.

      Bending his head, he asked, ‘Now, where did you learn to dance like this?’

      ‘My father taught me. Before he died, ballroom dancing was my parents’ hobby.’

      ‘I do apologise.’

      ‘For what?’

      ‘For daring to breathe the word disco.’

      ‘Oh, I can disco too,’ she told him cheerfully.

      ‘A woman of many parts.’

      He drew her closer and they enjoyed the rest of the dance before returning to their table.

      They had just regained their seats when, with perfect timing, their meal arrived. It proved to be delicious, and for the most part they ate in an appreciative silence.

      It wasn’t until they were at the coffee stage that Simon picked up the threads of their earlier conversation by remarking, ‘You said your mother went to live in Australia?’

      ‘Yes, she married a businessman from Sydney. I was surprised when she agreed to go all that way; she’d always hated the thought of flying.’

      Thoughtfully, she added, ‘To be honest, I hadn’t really expected her to remarry. She and Dad were such a devoted couple. As I told you, my father died when I was eighteen.’

      ‘Any brothers or sisters?’ Simon enquired.

      ‘No, there was just me. My parents couldn’t have any children. I was adopted.’

      ‘That’s tough.’

      She shook her head. ‘I was one of the lucky ones. My adoptive parents were nice, decent people, and though they brought me up strictly, they loved me and gave me everything I needed.’

      ‘What age were you when you were adopted?’

      ‘I was just a baby.’

      ‘So presumably you don’t remember anything about your natural parents?’

      ‘Nothing at all. I only know what Mum told me as soon as she thought I was old enough to understand, and what I picked up from the letters and documents she’d kept.’

      Responding to his tacit interest, she went on, ‘I know my real mother’s name was Emily Charlotte, and that in 1967, when she was just twenty, she married a man named Stephen Bolton. But some ten years later it seems he left her

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