Falling for the Secret Millionaire (10 page)

It is what it is, he reminded himself.

Even though he really wanted to change things.

CHAPTER SEVEN

O
NLY
ONE
OF
the builders on Nicole's list could actually come to look at the cinema within the next couple of days. One was too busy to come at all and the third couldn't make it for another month. She'd already cleared out as much junk as she could from the cinema so, until she'd seen the builder's quote and agreed the terms of business, Nicole knew she couldn't do much more at the cinema. All the paperwork was up to date, too, and she was simply waiting on replies. To keep herself busy instead of fretting about the downtime, she headed for the archives.

There were newspaper reports of the opening of the Kursaal in 1911, but to her disappointment there were no photographs. There was a brief description of the outside of the building, including the arch outside which apparently had Art Deco sun rays in the brickwork, but nothing about the ceiling of stars. She carefully typed out the relevant paragraphs—the font size was too small to be easily read on a photograph—and was about to give up looking when the archivist came to see her.

‘You might like to have a look through this,' she said, handing Nicole a thick album. ‘They're postcards of the area, from around the early nineteen hundreds. There might be something in there.'

‘Thank you,' Nicole said. ‘If there is, can I take a photograph on my phone?'

‘As long as you don't use flash. And if I can think of any other sources which might contain something about the cinema, I'll bring them over,' the archivist said.

Halfway through the postcard album, Nicole found a postcard of the Electric Palace; she knew that, in common with other similarly named buildings, its name had changed after the First World War, to make it sound less German. Clearly by then someone had painted the outside of the building white, because the sun rays on the arch had been covered over, as they were now.

She photographed the postcard carefully, then slipped the postcard from the little corners keeping it in place so she could read the back. The frank on the stamp told her that the card had been posted in 1934. To her delight, the inscription referred to the writer spending the previous night dancing in the ballroom—and also to seeing the film
It Happened One Night
, the previous week.

Clarence would be pleased to know there was a reference to Frank Capra, she thought as she carefully photographed the inscription.

Gabriel, she corrected herself.

And that was the problem. She really wanted to share this with Gabriel. Yet she already knew how rubbish her judgement was in men. Getting close to Gabriel Hunter would be a huge mistake.

Then again, the man she was getting to know was a decent man. Maybe he wouldn't let her down. Or maybe he would. So it would be sensible to keep it strictly business between them. Even though she was beginning to want a lot more than that.

* * *

On Saturday night, Nicole was sitting on her own in her flat. Usually by now on a Saturday she'd be talking to Clarence online, but she hadn't messaged him since she'd found out who he really was. She hadn't spent much time on the Surrey Quays website, either; it had felt awkward. Nobody had sent her a direct message, so clearly she hadn't been missed.

Nobody had been in touch from the bank, either, to see how things were going. It had been stupid to think that the last leaving drink had been a kind of new beginning; she was most definitely out of sight and out of mind. Her best friend was away for the weekend and so was her mother, which left her pretty much on her own.

She flicked through a few channels on the television. There was nothing on that she wanted to watch. Maybe she ought to analyse her competitors and start researching cinema programming, but right at that moment she felt lonely and miserable and wished she had someone to share it with. Which was weak, feeble and totally pathetic, she told herself.

Though she might as well admit it: she missed Clarence.

Did Gabriel miss Georgygirl? she wondered.

And now she was being
really
feeble. ‘Get over it, Nicole,' she told herself crossly.

She spent a while looking up the programming in various other small cinemas, to give herself a few ideas, and then her phone rang. She glanced at the screen: Gabriel. So he'd been thinking of her? Pleasure flooded through her.

Though it was probably a business call. Which was how it ought to be, and she should respond accordingly.
Sensibly.
She answered the phone. ‘Good evening, Gabriel,' she said coolly.

‘Good evening, Nicole. Are you busy tomorrow?' he asked.

‘It's Sunday tomorrow,' she prevaricated, not wanting to admit to him that her social life was a complete desert.

‘I know. But, if you're free, I'd like to take you on a research trip tomorrow.'

‘Research trip?' Was this his way of asking her out without making it sound like a date? Her heart skipped a beat.

‘To see a ceiling.'

Oh. So he really did mean just business. She did her best to suppress the disappointment. ‘Where?'

‘Norfolk.'

‘Isn't that a couple of hours' drive away?'

‘This particular bit is about two and a half hours away,' he said. ‘I'll pick you up at nine tomorrow morning. Wear shorts, or jeans you can roll up to your knees, and flat shoes you can take off easily. Oh, and a hat.'

‘What sort of hat?'

‘Whatever keeps the sun off.'

‘Why? And why do I need to take my shoes off?'

‘You'll see when you get there.' And then, annoyingly, he rang off before she could ask anything else.

Shorts, a hat and flat shoes.

What did that have to do with a ceiling?

She was none the wiser when Gabriel rang the intercom to her flat, the next morning.

‘I'm on my way down,' she said.

‘You look nice,' he said, smiling at her when she opened the main door to the flats. ‘That's the first time I've ever seen your hair loose.'

To her horror, Nicole could feel herself blushing at the compliment. Oh, for pity's sake. She was twenty-eight, not fifteen. ‘Thanks,' she mumbled. It didn't help that he was wearing faded denims and a T-shirt and he looked really
touchable
. Her fingertips actually tingled with the urge to reach out and see how soft the denim was.

And then he reached out and twirled the end of her hair round his fingers. Just briefly. ‘Like silk,' he said.

She couldn't look him in the eye. She didn't want him to know that she felt as if her knees had just turned to sand. ‘So what's this ceiling?' she asked.

‘Tin. Like the cinema. Except restored.'

‘And you know about it because...?'

‘I've seen it before,' he said, and ushered her over to his car. ‘This is why I said you need a hat, by the way.'

‘Show-off,' she said as he put the roof of his convertible down.

He spread his hands. ‘There aren't that many days in an English spring or summer when you can enjoy having the roof down. This is one of them. Got your hat?'

She grabbed the baseball cap from her bag and jammed it onto her head. ‘Happy?'

‘Happy. You can drive, if you want,' he said, surprising her.

She blinked. ‘You'd actually trust me to drive this?'

‘It's insured,' he said, ‘and I know where we're going, so I can direct you.'

‘I don't have a car,' she said. ‘I use public transport most of the time. The only time I drive is if there's a team thing at work and I have a pool car. That doesn't happen very often.'

‘But you have a licence and you can drive.' He handed her the car keys. ‘Here. Knock yourself out.'

‘Why?'

‘Because it'll distract you and stop you asking me questions,' he said. ‘And also because I think you might enjoy it. This car's a lot of fun to drive.'

He trusted her.

Maybe she needed to do the same for him.

‘Thank you,' she said.

Gabriel's directions were perfect—given clearly and in plenty of time—and Nicole discovered that he was right. His car really was fun to drive. And it was the perfect day for driving a convertible, with the sun out and the lightest of breezes. Once they were on the motorway heading north-east from London, Gabriel switched the radio to a station playing retro nineties music, and she found herself singing along with him.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd enjoyed herself so much.

‘Want to pull into the next lay-by and swap over?' he asked. ‘Then you can just enjoy the scenery instead of concentrating on directions and worrying that you're going to take the wrong exit off a roundabout.'

‘OK.'

They drove along the coast road, and she discovered that he was right; it really was gorgeous scenery.

‘They found that famous hoard of Iron Age gold torcs near here, at Snettisham,' he said.

‘Is that where we're going?'

‘No.'

Annoyingly, he wouldn't tell her any more until he pulled in to a hotel car park.

‘The Staithe Hotel,' she said, reading the sign. ‘Would this place have the ceiling we're coming to see?'

‘It would indeed.'

‘Staithe?'

‘It's an Old English word meaning “riverbank” or “landing stage”,' he said. ‘You see it mainly nowadays in place names in east and north-east England—the bits that were under Danelaw.'

Clearly he'd done his research. Years ago, maybe there had been some kind of wharf here. ‘Are we dressed suitably for a visit?' she asked doubtfully. ‘It looks quite posh.'

‘We're fine.'

Then she twigged. ‘It's
yours
, isn't it?'

‘The first hotel I worked on by myself,' he confirmed. ‘It was pretty run-down and Dad wasn't entirely sure I was doing the right thing, when I bid for it at the auction, but I really liked the place. And the views are stunning.'

When they went in, the receptionist greeted them warmly. ‘Have you booked a table?' she asked.

‘No, but I'd like to see the manager—he's expecting me,' Gabriel said.

‘Just a moment, sir,' the receptionist said, and disappeared into the room behind the reception desk.

The manager came out and smiled when he saw them. ‘Gabriel, it's good to see you.' He shook Gabriel's hand warmly.

‘You, too. Pete, this is my friend Nicole Thomas,' Gabriel said.

Friend.
The word made her feel warm inside. Were they friends, now?

‘Nicole, this is Pete Baines, my manager here.'

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Baines.' She shook his hand.

‘Call me Pete,' the manager said. ‘Any friend of Gabriel's is a friend of mine.'

‘Nicole is renovating the cinema next door to the place I'm working on at the moment,' Gabriel explained, ‘and her ceiling has a lot in common with the one in your restaurant.'

‘I get you,' Pete said. ‘Come with me, Nicole.' He ushered her into the restaurant.

The ceiling looked like elaborate plasterwork, as did the wainscoting around the fireplace.

‘Believe it or not, that's tin, not carving or plaster,' Pete said. ‘It's just painted to look that way. Obviously Gabriel knows a lot more than I do on that front—I just run the place and boss everyone about.'

‘And very well, too. Pete, I know you're normally booked out weeks ahead,' Gabriel said.

‘But you want me to squeeze you in for lunch?' Pete finished, smiling. ‘I'm sure we can do something.'

‘Any chance of a table on the terrace, outside?' Gabriel asked.

‘Sure. I'll leave you to take a closer look at the ceiling. Can I get you both a drink?'

‘Sparkling mineral water for me, please,' Nicole said.

‘Make that two,' Gabriel added.

‘I can't believe this isn't plasterwork,' Nicole said, looking at the ceiling and wainscoting.

‘It's tin. The place was originally built in Victorian times by a local businessman. His son remodelled it to make the room look more Tudor and added the tin wainscoting and ceiling.' He flicked into his phone. ‘This is what it looked like before the restoration.'

She looked at the photographs. ‘It looks a mess, there—but you can't see any of the damage here.' She gestured to the wainscoting in front of her.

‘I can let you have the restoration guy's name, if you'd like it. And, by the way, as you paid at La Chiatta, I'm buying lunch here. No arguments,' he said. ‘Otherwise you'll just have to starve.'

‘Noted,' she said. ‘And thank you.'

When they sat out on the terrace and she'd read the menu, she looked at Gabriel. ‘This menu's amazing. Is all the food locally sourced?' she asked.

‘Yes. The locals love us, and we've had some good write-ups in the national papers as well—Pete gets foodies coming all the way from London to stay for the weekend. The chef's great and we're hoping to get a Michelin star in the next round,' Gabriel said.

‘What do you recommend?'

‘Start from the puddings and work backwards,' he said.

She looked at the dessert menu and smiled. ‘I think I know what I'm having.'

‘White chocolate and raspberry bread and butter pudding?' he asked.

At her nod, he grinned. ‘Me, too.'

‘Crab salad for mains, then,' she said.

‘Share some sweet potato fries?' he suggested.

This felt much more like a date than the other times they'd eaten together—even though they'd officially come on a research trip to look at the tin ceiling.

The view from the terrace was really pretty across the salt marshes and then to the sea. ‘I can't believe how far the sand stretches,' she said.

‘That's why I said wear shoes you can take off and jeans you can roll up,' he said. ‘We're going for a walk on the beach after lunch to work off the calories from the pudding, and to blow the cobwebs out.'