Irresistible Temptation(6)

She shuddered as she walked slowly back up the hill, weighed down by her  shopping and the remembrance of the morning's confrontation.

Because she could just imagine the row there would be when Jeremy got back, she thought despondently.

Declan Malone had caught her off guard-flicked her on the raw-but that  was no excuse. She'd behaved like an idiot, pushing herself forward like  that before she'd sussed out the situation.

If only Jeremy had told her that he was holed up temporarily with his  wife's cousin. Instead, she'd gained the opposite impression-that he had  his own independent fiat, that he was making a life which she would be  able to share.

I couldn't have been listening properly, she admitted, with a sigh. Or else I simply heard what I wanted to hear.

Nothing, but nothing was working out as she'd expected. And she could  well end up on her own in one of the world's great uncaring capitals.

Or she could go back to Bristol, she reminded herself. No one apart from  Beth knew why she'd come to London, and her flatmate was too kind and  loyal to have spread the word. She could probably even get her old job  back.

My God, she thought in swift horror, as she crossed the road to Lancey  Terrace. That was real defeatist talk. Return to square one and occupy  her familiar rut. When in fact it had been more than time for a change.  For her to take hold of her life by the scruff of its neck and shake it.

She had a career-valuable job skills to offer. She could earn her  living-pay her way. She'd come to London to share Jeremy's life, not to  become some pathetic dependent.

And whatever happened, she intended to survive.

Lifting her chin, she strode the last hundred yards.



Her shopping unpacked and put away, Olivia sat down to eat her lunch and  take a long look round her. The flat was starting to look occupied, and  she had her small portable radio to fill the silence. She'd noticed,  too, there was a TV aerial in the room. And from the information that  Sasha had thrown at her earlier about Netting Hill Gate she reckoned  she'd be able to rent a set quite easily.

That will be my project for the afternoon, she thought. Keep busy-keep interested-and, above all, don't brood.

She'd found a vase in one of the cupboards. She'd get some flowers to go  in it. And some wine. If it turned out there was nothing to celebrate,  then she'd drown her sorrows instead, she decided, squaring her  shoulders.

She got out her A to Z of London, working out the shortest route to the Gate.

Sasha had told her she could find anything there, and that seemed to be  true, she thought as she battled with the other Saturday afternoon  shoppers. Like Portobello, it seemed to be fizzing with life. She gave  herself time to look properly, lingering in front of boutiques and  reading the menus of the various bistros, walking, inevitably, much  further than she'd planned.

But if Notting Hill was to be her home, at least for the time being, she  needed to get to know it. She wanted to look as confident and  purposeful as the people who streamed past her, and feel it too.

She thought suddenly, I want to belong.

At a wine shop she bought some red Italian wine to go with the pasta, a  decent Chardonnay for the chicken, and an optimistic Bollinger for her  reunion     with Jeremy, investing in a strong canvas bag in which to lug  her purchases home, as most of her shopping was likely to be done on the  hoof from now on.

She discovered a TV store without difficulty, and ended up buying a  reconditioned portable with a reasonable warranty for far less than the  cost of an annual rental, treating herself to a cab to get it back to  Lancey Terrace. After all, she reminded herself, she couldn't waste good  job-hunting time waiting at the flat for a delivery to be made.

In spite of her personal reservations, there was a curious satisfaction in making her basement look like home.

But, when it came to it, the idea of spending her first evening in London concocting a pasta sauce for one held little appeal.

Up to now there'd always been people around her-family first, then  friends, and flatmates. Always someone to laugh with, or moan to, or  simply exchange the news of the day.

This was her first experience of being single in the city, and she needed to tackle it positively.

So she wouldn't skulk in the flat, feeling hard done to. She would go  out. Go to the cinema in the Gate, and have a meal afterwards. Make her  first night in London an occasion.

She changed, putting on black leggings, a cream shirt, and a long black  linen jacket, and set off. She had a choice of films, including a  well-reviewed romantic comedy, but it seemed safer in her present state  of mind to opt for a thriller, with a plot convoluted enough to keep her  mind engaged, and, consequently, off her personal problems.

She emerged feeling more relaxed then she'd done all day. Now all that  remained was to find somewhere to eat. Probably not easy, she realised,  surveying the still crowded pavements. Maybe she'd have to settle for a  take-away.                       
       
           



       

She'd intended to head for one of the bistros she'd checked out earlier,  but instead found herself wandering up Kensington Park Road.

The lit window of a restaurant drew her across the street, but one look  was enough to convince her that it was not only full to bursting point  with beautiful people, but, more significantly, out of her price range.

She was just moving on when she saw a diner seated at a table for two in  the window itself turn, hand raised, to summon a waiter.

She recognised him with stomach-churning immediacy. Declan Malone, she  thought, stiffening, her hackles on full alert. But not with the  morning's exotic redhead, she noticed at once. His evening's companion  was a willowy blonde decorously clad in a dark trouser suit. For the  moment anyway. Presumably the peach towel outfit came later.

'Poor girl,' she muttered under her breath. 'Does she realise she's simply feeding the ego of a serial womaniser?'

Clearly she didn't, because she was devouring Declan Malone with her  eyes, to the complete detriment of the food on her plate. And he was  looking at her and smiling in a way that had been totally lacking in his  dealings with Olivia.

In fact, Olivia acknowledged without pleasure, she would hardly have recognised him.

A taxi drew up, and three girls got out, all stick-thin, and talking and giggling at the tops of their voices.

As the new arrivals pranced past her into the restaurant, shrieking  their hellos and air-kissing everyone within reach, Olivia started, as  if she'd been woken abruptly from some spell.

What the hell am I doing? she demanded silently. Hang-ing round here  with my nose pressed against the glass like the Little Match Girl? Do I  want him to look up and see me?

Hastily, she turned away, retracing her steps towards the Gate.

She realised with sudden bleakness that her appetite had totally  deserted her. And, more disturbingly, that she had never felt quite so  cold, or so lonely in her life before.



Claudia Lang was not a particularly conceited girl, but she was  sufficiently keyed in to know when her dinner partner's attention was  wandering, and human enough to be piqued by it.

She reached across the table and put a scarlet-tipped hand on Declan's sleeve.

'Is something wrong?'

Startled, Declan wrenched his frowning gaze back from the window.

'No-I'm sorry. I-thought I saw someone outside. Someone I knew.'

Claudia directed a sceptical glance over her shoulder at the darkness  beyond the window. 'Then you must have X-ray vision,' she commented  lightly. 'Do you want to go and check?'

'Of course not' The frown faded, and the smile he sent her was charming  and repentant 'I'm probably wrong, and anyway, it's really-not  important' He paused, then added with cold emphasis, 'Not important at  all.'

And wondered why he'd needed to say that.





CHAPTER THREE





A good night's sleep was all she needed to cheer her up and put her  right. That was what Olivia had told herself. But sleep was proving  elusive.

The sofa-bed was comfortable enough, but quite apart from the non-stop  traffic noise-did no one else ever go to bed?-there was no air in her  room. Although she'd opened the window at the top, the atmosphere still  felt heavier than the quilt she'd kicked off. The curtains hung  unmoving.

The dial on her alarm clock told her it was nearly three in the morning, and so far she hadn't closed her eyes.

I'm just on edge about seeing Jeremy again, she thought. And it's a  strange bed, strange room, strange city. What else can I expect but  insomnia?

She got up and padded down the narrow passage into the kitchen. She  poured milk into a saucepan, and set it on the hob, then opened the tin  of drinking chocolate she'd included in her groceries.

Of course, if everything had gone according to plan she wouldn't have  been doing much sleeping anyway, she acknowledged, her face warming  slightly.

She supposed Jeremy would have taken her to a hotel. Because they  certainly wouldn't have been allowed to be together at Lancey Gardens,  as Declan Malone had made more than clear.