Federica simmered quietly with fury as she walked about rearranging her department. Harriet was too tired to talk and so Federica wallowed in her own self-pity, wishing she had the strength of character to stand up for herself.
When a tall, leather-clad man in a black shiny motorbike helmet stalked into the shop, she pressed the code B button on the telephone in an act of defiance and watched the stairs for Nigel Dalby.
Nigel glided down with as much subtlety as a policeman in a pantomime. Federica caught his eye and nodded towards the man who hovered suspiciously by the door. Nigel approached him, straightened himself up importantly and asked him to remove his helmet. ‘I’m afraid we don’t permit helmets in the shop,’ he explained with self-importance. The man cocked his head to one side in amusement before removing his gloves and then his helmet, shaking out his raven hair and revealing himself to be none other than Torquil Jensen. Nigel spluttered his apologies and visibly shrunk.
Federica sighed heavily as the colour drained from her face. Harriet was right, he was quite the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Nigel withdrew backwards, almost bowing as he went, then scuttled up the stairs to hide while his humiliation subsided in the privacy of his office.
Torquil looked at Federica with green eyes and smirked. ‘So you’re the shop security, are you?’ he said, striding over to her and dropping his helmet onto the counter. ‘I’m Torquil Jensen.’ He extended his hand. He watched her blush
as he traced her features with the same scrutinizing stare as his uncle had done earlier.
‘Federica Campione,’ she replied hoarsely.
‘Italian?’
‘Chilean.’
‘What a beautiful country,’ he exclaimed. ‘I travelled there as a young man.’ Then he grinned at her brazenly. ‘This may sound crass but I’m so completely stunned by your looks, I’ve forgotten what I came in for.’ Federica frowned in discomfort and felt the wings of a butterfly make her stomach quiver. ‘You’re very pretty,’ he continued. ‘You must be new. No one’s that keen to assist Nigel Dalby.’ He laughed, his face creasing into deep lines around his large mouth and surprisingly pale eyes. ‘You did him a favour, he thinks he’s much more important than he is, those sort of people need to be taken down a peg or two.’
‘It was a mistake. I apologize,’ she said, thinking of Nigel Dalby’s long knuckled fingers tapping his mortification away alone in his office and felt guilty. ‘He was only doing his job,’ she added in his defence.
‘And you were only doing yours,’ he said. ‘I’ve just bought a new bike, you
must come for a ride sometime,’ he added, caressing her with intense eyes. She smiled awkwardly. He folded his arms and leant on the counter. She stepped back as the spicy scent of his skin and the heat of his body invaded her senses with too much intimacy. ‘Oh, I know what I came in for. I need something for a young woman,’ he said, then thought a moment, rubbing his stubbly chin with his hand. ‘A young woman, about your age. A Christmas present. What sort of thing would she like?’
‘How well do you know her?’ she asked, trying to sound official in spite of his suffocating proximity.
‘Not very well. But I want to give her something,’ he said casually, grinning at her.
‘How much do you want to spend?’
‘Money is no object. If you’d been here longer you’d know that. I never look at prices, they only get in the way. So, what do you think you’d like, for example?’
‘Well, if you don’t know her too well, I’d go for something pretty but not too intimate. Let me see,’ she said, casting her eyes about the shop, feeling the shamelessness of his stare burn her face crimson. She saw Harriet hiding
behind the glass cabinets displaying the china they had just moved, and wished she’d come to her aid. But Harriet felt too ugly to show herself and cowered lower until even Federica couldn’t see her.
‘What about one of those china pots, you could buy a plant and present them together?’
‘Would you like a plant?’ he asked.
‘Of course. All women like plants.’
‘I like your ideas, give me another one,’ he said, without taking his eyes off her.
‘A painting?’ she suggested, looking up at the patchwork of pictures on the wall.
‘I don’t know her taste,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘What about a silver photograph frame or something pretty that she can use?’
‘Oh, I know,’ she said, leading him through the shop to a locked glass case that contained exquisite ornate silver frames. ‘This one’s just come in, it’s from China. It’s so delicate, isn’t it? If you don’t know her very well, it’s perfect.’