Midnight Wedding. Sophie WestonЧитать онлайн книгу.
got into the ancient van and fumbled the ignition comprehensively. The engine flooded. Holly pounded her fists on the wheel.
‘I don’t need anyone to look after me,’ she raged.
She turned the key again. The engine gave a tubercular cough and died. There was nothing to do but wait.
And think. And remember.
Oddly, it was not Brendan she remembered; not his schemes and manipulation and, when that failed, his bullying. Nor the claustrophobic world of Lansing Mills. Not even her father’s successor with his manicured hands and dead eyes—the eyes that had ultimately stampeded her into bolting for freedom. What she remembered, what she could not get out of her head, was an impatient man with a long sexy mouth and an air of ineffable superiority.
Gorgeous Jack would not have flooded the engine of the temperamental little van, thought Holly, seething. He would have lit the spark at his first attempt. Then he would have driven off with any woman he rescued safe beside him…
‘Stop right there. I don’t need to be rescued,’ Holly told the dashboard, glaring. ‘I haven’t needed anyone to rescue me for the last five years. I don’t need anyone now. Particularly not a superior clown in an Armani suit. I don’t.’
But as she finally switched on the engine and drove out into the boulevard, she could not quite banish Jack Armour’s dark, dark eyes. Or the thought that it would be heaven to have a man like that take over the fight against Brendan.
Now that, thought Holly fervently, I really can’t afford. Put it out of your mind, girl.
She tried. She really tried.
By the time she got to work that evening she had almost succeeded. She slipped into Club Thaïs half an hour after it opened. She came via the fire escape, not for the first time.
‘You’re late,’ said Gilbert, the owner. He followed her into the tiny cupboard under the stairs where the staff left their belongings. ‘The husband catching up?’
He would have been cautious about tangling with an uncertain law. But, as Holly had soon worked out, he was a hundred per cent in favour of running away from a bad marriage. So she had told him what he wanted to hear, that any man who turned up looking for her would be her jealous ex-husband. So Gilbert, a frustrated romantic, was happy to help cover her tracks.
Holly half closed the cupboard door against him. In cramped modesty, she shrugged out of her denim jacket and T-shirt and pulled a black cropped top over her head. ‘Uh-huh.’
Gilbert was not very interested in her personal life. ‘How many flyers did you deliver?’ he said from his stance in the hallway.
‘Got rid of the lot,’ said Holly, conveniently forgetting that half her load had scattered themselves over the floor.
She slithered into the black jeans that all Gilbert’s staff wore, even if, like Holly, they jammed in with the musicians from time to time.
She pushed the cupboard door open and emerged to find Gilbert vainly polishing steam off the wall mirror. He turned, smiling.
‘Good. We need some new punters. It’s slow tonight.’
Not bothering to look in the mirror, she flattened the wisps of hair which escaped from her plait with quick, expert fingers.
‘It may hot up when Tobacco start their set,’ she said comfortingly.
Tobacco—‘this band can seriously damage your health’—were new and cool and the club’s patrons loved them. Not much chance of jamming in tonight, thought Holly, storing her flute carefully behind the discarded clothes.
‘If that happens, I’ll need you to stay late again. OK?’
Holly nodded. That meant good tips and, if Gilbert was feeling generous, a bonus in her take-home cash. If she was going on the run again she would need it. Brendan did not look as if he was open to negotiation—or about to give up.
She looked quickly at the blackboard behind the chef’s head and memorised the menu with the speed of long practice. There were not that many changes to the food at the Club Thaïs. People came to talk, to dance, to drink and, sometimes, to listen to the jazz. The meal was strictly incidental.
For a moment, Holly was sad. The Club Thaïs had been a home from home for her for ten months now. She would miss it.
But there was no point in wasting time on regrets—not about going on the run again; not about having seen the last of Gorgeous Jack. Every moment was for living, her mother had said. In the last five years Holly had come to believe it.
She grabbed her order pad and squared her shoulders against the world.
‘OK, Gilbert, here we go,’ she said gaily. She flung back the swing doors into the restaurant. ‘Let the good times roll.’
‘Why here? Oh God, you’re following that girl, aren’t you?’
Ramon stood at the top of the cellar steps and looked at the half-full cellar with distaste.
Jack’s smile was bland.
‘You said you wanted to see the real Paris.’
‘Not this real.’
‘Come on, Ramon. It’s not like you to pass up a chance to let your hair down.’
‘After we’ve clinched the deal. Not before. I don’t want to go into an eight o’clock meeting with a hangover from bad wine and worse jazz.’
But Jack was unrelenting. ‘Local colour,’ he said hardily. ‘Savour the experience.’
Grumbling, Ramon followed him down into the dark of the club. The floor was made up of uneven stone flags and the walls, as far as the low lighting allowed them to be seen, were covered in posters for poetry readings and obscure bands.
They sat at a rickety corner table. It was covered with a square of rigid paper and bore half a candle in a chipped saucer.
‘Very ethnic,’ said Ramon sourly.
About half the tables were full. A thin man was making concentrated music with the tabla and there was a desultory hum of conversation. Jack ordered a bottle of red wine and then sat back and surveyed the crowd alertly.
‘You look like you’re waiting for something.’
‘Maybe we’re about to hear the new Duke Ellington,’ said Jack. His voice was lazy, but his eyes were not.
Ramon was dubious. ‘Maybe…’ And then he sat bolt upright. ‘Oh, no.’
‘What?’
‘Damn.’
‘Where is she? said Jack, lazy no longer. His eyes were searching the cellar, hard and intent.
‘Jack, think—’
Jack ignored him. He raised a hand to the waiter and when the man came over said, ‘The young waitress. The one with the long plait. What’s her name?’
The waiter looked at him suspiciously. ‘Holly,’ he said.
‘Holly what?’
The waiter shrugged.
‘Does she work here regularly?’
‘Why don’t you ask her? Hey, Hol. Over here.’
She wove her way between the tables. ‘Yes? Can I—?’ She broke off.
It was him. Him. Her heart went into a nosedive.
Jack stood up.
Her heart levelled out and started to tap-dance.
‘It’s you,’ said Holly not much above a whisper.
It was unbelievable. As if by thinking about him, she had conjured him up like a genie. Perhaps he wasn’t really there, except in her