LITMIR.BIZ

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herself, stared resolutely out of the car window.

      But she was still breathing unevenly when they drove through tall ornamental gates and drew up outside the celebrated Mayfair restaurant.

      Once a private house, the Xanadu was built in the style of a Spanish hacienda, and stood in its own discreetly floodlit gardens. Mature trees and shrubs provided a pleasant backdrop to smooth green lawns, and flowering shrubs climbed the stuccoed walls.

      When the middle-aged chauffeur got out to open the door, Rafe told him, ‘Don’t bother hanging around, Michael. Get off home to the wife.’

      His look grateful, the man said, ‘Thank you, sir. Goodnight sir, madam…’

      Rafe opened the thick smoked-glass door with an easy courtesy that she soon came to know was part of his nature.

      Inside the foyer, his jacket was whisked away and they were greeted by the proprietor. ‘Good evening, Mr Lombard…madam…How nice to see you. Your usual table?’

      His usual table…Did he make a habit of bringing his women here? Madeleine wondered.

      ‘Please, Henri.’

      The maître d’ appeared to show them through a series of archways to a secluded corner table in the stylish, white-walled restaurant.

      Long windows looking onto the gardens were open wide, letting in warm evening air fragrant with the scent of roses and honeysuckle. A few bright stars were appearing, and a thin, silvery disc of moon floated in the blue sky.

      As he’d said, it was the perfect setting for a romantic evening.

      Watching her glance round, and instantly on her wavelength, he queried, ‘Yes?’

      ‘Yes,’ she agreed with a smile.

      While they sipped an aperitif she tried to concentrate on the menu, but, try as she might, she couldn’t prevent herself looking at him, and whenever he wasn’t watching her her eyes were drawn to his face.

      He wasn’t merely good-looking. With a cleft chin, a mouth that was at once ascetic and sensual, a strong nose, high cheekbones, brilliant, thickly lashed green eyes and dark, curved brows, he was intriguing, riveting.

      But it was more than his looks. Much more. There was something about the man himself. Something she couldn’t quite put a name to, but something that fulfilled a need in her. It felt right to be with him, as if she had always known him, as if they belonged together.

      While they ate an excellent meal he kept the conversation light and general, moving from topic to topic, finding out what interested her, seeking her opinion on the subjects that did.

      In spite of her awareness of him, the heated attraction that lay just beneath the surface, she found herself responding with an ease that, when she thought about it later, surprised her.

      It wasn’t until they reached the coffee stage that he deliberately moved into more dangerous territory.

      Needing to know, and recalling the levelness of her gaze even when she was flustered, he went for the direct approach. ‘Tell me about your husband.’

      Every nerve in her body tightening, she said, ‘There’s not much to tell.’

      ‘What was his name?’

      ‘Colin. Colin Formby.’

      ‘You kept your maiden name?’ he queried.

      ‘Yes. It was what my family wanted,’ she said quietly, taking a sip of her drink.

      He raised an eyebrow quizzically. ‘You were an only child?’

      ‘Yes,’ Madeleine answered.

      Rafe paused, leaning back in his chair. ‘What field was your husband in?’

      ‘Physiotherapy.’

      ‘When did the pair of you meet?’

      ‘At university.’ Madeleine lowered her gaze, focusing on anything but Rafe’s probing gaze.

      ‘You were students together?’

      ‘No. I was in my final year. Colin was a tutor.’

      Rafe was intrigued. ‘So he was older than you?’

      ‘Eighteen years.’

      ‘A big gap.’

      ‘Yes,’ she said shortly. Madeleine had always thought that the age gap, big as it was, wouldn’t have mattered if she had truly loved him.

      Rafe could sense her growing discomfort, but having got this far, he decided to press on. ‘How long were the two of you married?’

      ‘Six months.’

      ‘Not long.’

      ‘No,’ Madeleine almost whispered.

      Rafe paused, knowing his questions were difficult for her. ‘How did he die?’

      ‘He was killed in an explosion.’

      Quelling the urge to ask any further questions, Rafe commented, ‘Tough.’

      Madeleine raised her eyes to his. ‘Yes, it was.’

      There was sadness there and some other emotion Rafe couldn’t put a name to. But it wasn’t the utter desolation, the inconsolable grief, of someone who had lost all they held dear. Of that he was sure.

      He breathed an inward sigh of relief. The absence of a man in her life had made him fear that she was still in love with her dead husband, but the vibes he was picking up convinced him he was wrong.

      Which must make his chances of succeeding, a great deal easier, he thought.

      Refilling her coffee-cup, he changed the subject smoothly. ‘What does Madeleine Knight do in her spare time? Are you a secret television addict?’

      Relaxing again, she laughed and shook her head. ‘No, I much prefer a book.’

      ‘Ah, a woman after my own heart! Have you read Matthew Colt’s Funny Business…?’

      ‘Oh, yes…I loved the part where Joe tries to steal his exwife’s poodle…’

      For a little while they talked about the book, laughing over the bits that had amused them the most, before Madeleine remarked, ‘I read somewhere that it’s going to be turned into a play.’

      ‘So I understand. Should be worth seeing…Do you like the theatre?’

      ‘Love it.’

      ‘Have you had a chance to see the new West End play everyone’s talking about?’

      ‘Beloved Impresario?’ She shook her head and, unwilling to admit she couldn’t really afford to go to the theatre these days, said, ‘I imagine tickets are like gold dust.’

      ‘I’m sure I could get hold of a couple, if you’d like to see it?’ he asked casually.

      Her heart starting to hammer against her ribs, she bit back the urge to accept. She was being foolish in the extreme just having dinner with him. No doubt all he wanted was a brief fling.

      But while many women might have jumped at the chance, that kind of thing wasn’t her style.

      Plus, it could cost her her job.

      Her expression tight, controlled, she refused with formal politeness. ‘I don’t think so, thank you.’

      He was having none of it. Green eyes looked into aquamarine. ‘You mean you don’t want to see it? Or you don’t want to see it with me?’

      Feeling as though she’d been set down in the middle of a minefield, she found herself wishing the evening were over. Wishing she could escape.

      And he knew it.

      Lifting her chin, she answered as steadily as possible, ‘I don’t

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