Never Too Late (4 page)

plastered and his wife, Hilda, who was supposed to meet

him in the hotel bar an hour ago, isn’t amused. I knew

you’d be able to talk to her. Nobody else can. She’s so

difficult.’

Evie’s delight evaporated.

‘I don’t even know her,’ she hissed frantically into

Simon’s ear. But he was already bundling her across the

room to where an icy-faced matron in a black satin tent

stood alone beside a stately Christmas tree.

‘Hilda,’ Simon said in his best client voice, ‘this is Evie

Fraser, my fiancee. She so wanted to meet you.’

Gritting her teeth, Evie tried to look as if she wanted to

meet Hilda Maguire. Hilda didn’t look as if she wanted

to meet anyone - except perhaps for a Mafia t while

she arranged a contract on her errant husband.

‘Hello, Hilda,’ Evie said warmly.

Hilda muttered something unintelligible in reply and

kept her eyes on the group of people standing beside the

buffet table.

Because Simon was not the chatty sort, Evie didn’t know

the office gossip. But seeing Hilda’s husband nose to nose

with a giant tumbler of amber liquid and an attractive girl

as he loudly told what could only be ribald jokes, it wasn’t

hard to figure out that Hugh preferred his partying sans Hilda.

As his wife stood beside her, glowering and breathing

heavily like a rhino with asthma, Evie wasn’t sure she

blamed him.

‘Isn’t this a lovely party?’ Evie said, glancing around the

room where forty or so well-dressed people were spread

out, sipping drinks, nibbling canapes and avoiding her and

Hilda like the plague.

‘I hate office parties,’ she boomed, eyes still fixed on

Hugh, a handsome grey-haired man who had drained his

tumbler in two seconds flat and was now looking around

for a waitress.

‘They’re a good opportunity for staff to meet each other

socially, and of course their other halves,’ Evie said, aware

that she sounded like a personnel manual on the subject of

office relations.

Across the room, Hugh guffawed and put one hairy

hand around his companion’s suede-clad waist.

Hilda snorted.

Gamely, Evie pushed on.

‘I do love your outfit,’ she lied. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘Had to have it made,’ snapped Hilda. ‘I’ve trouble with

my thyroid.’

There was no answer to that. ‘Er … would you like a

drink?’ Evie asked in desperation. She could certainly do

with one. Simon had abandoned her without asking if she

wanted anything, she thought crossly. So much for an

enjoyable evening swanning around on his arm as she

showed off her engagement ring.

Now she was stuck with an enraged Hilda Maguire and

everyone was giving the pair of them a very wide berth.

From the safety of the other side of the room, Simon gave

Evie an encouraging smile. She glared back. When she got

her hands on him, she’d murder him.

Seeing a uniformed waitress pass by, Evie waved at her

and plucked a silver-chased glass cup from the girl’s tray.

‘It’s mulled wine,’ the waitress informed her.

‘Thanks.’ Evie took a deep sip, letting the spicy warm

liquid flood into her. It was beautiful, like distilled blackberries with a hint of cinnamon. She decided to take the

bull by the horns.

‘Hilda,’ she said, taking another cup of mulled wine, ‘try

this. It’ll do wonders for you.’

The other woman turned to look at her and Evie saw

there were tears in her eyes: fat, unshed tears glistening

behind the mascara-free eyelashes. Evie smiled, the first

genuine smile she’d given Hilda since they’d met.

‘Go on, it’s nice. You could do with a bit of anaesthesia,’

she urged.

‘Thank you,’ muttered Hilda. She drained her cup in a

couple of gulps and grabbed another one from the

departing waitress’s tray. ‘Everybody else is pretending it

isn’t happening,’ she said bitterly, looking at her husband.

‘At least you have the honesty to acknowledge it. Nobody

else will say a word because he’s the boss and they’re

toadying desperately to hold on to their jobs. Some boss!’

Evie shrugged helplessly. ‘People don’t know what to

say, Hilda,’ she pointed out as gently as she could. ‘It’s not

because they’re toadying - it’s simply embarrassing for

everyone.’

Seeing Hilda’s bottom lip quiver, she looked around for

somewhere to sit. There was a large unoccupied couch in

one corner of the large room and she led the other woman

towards it. Hilda sank down and immediately started

feeling around in her handbag.

‘You’re being so kind to me,’ she said tearfully as she

extracted a tissue from a travel pack.

Evie grinned wryly and thought of all the people who’d

come to her with their problems over the years. People

gravitated towards her for advice, whether it was about

work or their emotional problems.

All the girls at Wentworth Alarms ended up at Evie’s

desk at some point or another, ostensibly looking for

tampons or the petty cash book but really looking for a

motherly shoulder to cry on. It amused Evie to think that

many of them were only slightly younger than she was, but

they still saw her as an older, mumsy figure. Rosie was

right: she was old before her time.

Two hours later, after listening to more details of Hugh

and Hilda’s marriage than she really wanted to know, Evie

helped Hilda into a taxi and waved her goodbye.

‘You were wonderful, Evie,’ said a voice.

She whirled around to see Simon at her side, his tie

askew and his hair tousled. He looked as if he’d been

overindulging in the mulled wine.

‘Well, you were no bloody help at all,’ she retorted, still

smarting at having been abandoned all evening to cheer up

Hilda.

‘Sorry, Evie.’ Simon tried his best to look forlorn but

failed. ‘You’re so good with people, I told everyone you’d

be able to look after Hilda.’

‘hmmph.’ Mildly mollified, she let him take her hand

and they walked back to the party. It wasn’t even ten yet,

there was still plenty of time to enjoy themselves.

But once she’d joined Simon’s closest colleagues, it was

soon apparent that while she’d been listening to stories of

what a catch of a husband Hugh Maguire had been twenty

years ago, they’d all been giggling over mulled wine and

endless pints of free beer and were all plastered.

After hearing the same joke repeated twice - and they

all laughed as much the second time - Evie decided she

wasn’t in the mood to be the only sedate one at the party.

Drawing Simon aside, she whispered: “I think I’ll leave

you guys to it. I’m tired and after talking to Hilda all

evening, I’m not in party mood. I’ll go home.’

She half hoped he’d insist she stay, manfully demanding

that she had to remain at the party. But ever the peacemaker,

Simon nodded and said he’d bring her out to get a

taxi.

‘I’m sorry, it wasn’t much of an evening for you, Evie,’

he apologised as they waited outside the hotel door for the

second time that evening. ‘If you hadn’t come along, I

don’t know what we’d have done. Hugh’s definitely developing

a bit of a drink problem and we were all sure Hilda

would go ballistic when she discovered how drunk he was.’

‘And how flirtatious,’ Evie said tartly.

‘That too,’ Simon admitted. ‘But you were wonderful,’

he said and kissed her - a lingering kiss on the lips.

Evie felt the tension of the evening flood away from her

at the pressure of his mouth. She unconsciously slipped a

hand behind his neck, reaching up to kiss him passionately.

His body melted against hers, his arms reaching inside her

coat to encircle her waist.

‘Come home with me, Simon,’ she said in a low voice.

‘I’m not going to see you for three days over Christmas

and I’ll miss you. You’ve done your duty for tonight.’

He pulled away, shocked. ‘I can’t leave now,’ he said.

‘Hugh and the other senior partners are still here. I can’t go

before they do - it’d be incredibly rude.’

Hurt, Evie moved away and clutched her coat around

her body, wrapping her arms around her chest. ‘Hugh’s

drunk,’ she said, her voice high and angry. ‘He’d hardly

notice if the bloody hotel disappeared, never mind you. I

don’t see why you can’t leave. But,’ she turned away as a

taxi drove smoothly in front of her, ‘you do what you

want.’ She could feel herself getting emotional. The last

thing she wanted to do was cry.

The doorman, who had been discreetly ignoring both

their embrace and their row, opened the car door.

‘Oh, Evie,’ said Simon wearily.

Without turning around, she hopped into the taxi.

‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow,’ she said in a tight little voice.

‘Have a nice party.’

With perfect timing, the doorman slammed the door

shut and the taxi driver drove off.

‘Where to, love?’ he asked.

Evie gave him the address and sank back into the seat

miserably. Some party.

As the car cruised through the city, Evie gazed out the

window and watched the bright lights go past in a blur.

She was tired, but not that tired. If Simon had begged her

not to leave, she’d still be there. But he didn’t. And he was

afraid to leave in case he offended anyone. Not too afraid

to offend her, she thought, her temper mounting.

What sort of a man would land his fiancee with a

babysitting job for the first half of a party, and then let her go home alone after they’d shared a very sexy moment?

Evie glowered.

‘My darling, I would follow you to the ends of the earth. Of

course let us leave this boring party. I have a light supper

prepared for you in my penthouse.’

He held her hand to his lips, a little longer than was strictly necessary, his sensual lips brushing against her silken skin.

Evie felt her heart quicken at his touch. She knew what

would happen if he took her to his luxury penthouse: he would

make love to her. And she, who had resisted his advances in

Paris and on the yacht, knew she would not resist this time.

Her handsome, charming prince had been undressing her

with his dark melting eyes for weeks, with hot glances across

the roulette table and as she danced with the ambassador at

the ball. Now he would undress her for real, his hands gently

undoing the tiny buttons on her St Laurent gown, letting it slip over her slender figure, marvelling at the swell of her breasts and the length of her elegant long legs.

‘Will you do me the honour of coming with me?’ he asked

again, those eyes boring into her very soul…

‘That’ll be fifteen quid, love,’ said the taxi driver. Evie

paid him and marched into the house, feeling like

Cinderella sent home early from the ball because the

pumpkin had got a flat tyre.

Naturally, Rosie wasn’t home. It was only half-ten and

she’d probably stay out until twelve, sure her mother

wouldn’t be home before then. Feeling very sorry for

herself, Evie heated up a cup of milk in the microwave and

took it up. Within ten minutes she was climbing into bed,

her clothes put away and her face scrupulously cleaned

and moisturised.

It was cold and she snuggled under the duvet, cosy in

candy-striped brushed cotton pyjamas. Glamorous they

weren’t but they were lovely and warm, a major plus when

it took ages for the electric blanket to heat up.

After a moment getting warm, she took her mug of milk

in one hand, her latest Lucy De Montford in the other and

settled down to read.

Monique had just told the duke she couldn’t marry him

because she was still in love with the dashing Spanish

pirate who’d captured her and her maid as they crossed

the Atlantic. Evie didn’t know how she’d put Monique’s

Desires down the night before. Only the knowledge that

she had to get up early to work had forced her to turn off

her light just when it looked as if the heroine would have

to compromise herself to support her huge, hopeless

family. Monique was crying miserably in the turret where

the duke had imprisoned her, but Evie knew she wouldn’t

be there for long. She was wearing a flimsy white gown

with a bodice awash with silk ribbons and nobody in Lucy

De Montford’s novels ever wore anything fastened with

ribbons if they intended to stay clothed. Tonight, Evie was

determined to stay up until three in the morning if

necessary to find out what happened.

Evie could well imagine the duke arriving in the turret

to claim Monique for himself, marriage or no marriage.

And the Spanish pirate would have to get there in time.

There’d be a duel of course …

She thought of Simon duelling for her honour, rapier

held aloft as he challenged some nasty duke who had evil

designs on her body. Well, maybe not. Simon hated the

sight of blood and was incredibly squeamish. When Rosie

had grazed her shin while rollerblading, Evie had nearly

had two patients to deal with. Rosie, who was in pain but

trying to hide it, and Simon, who’d practically fainted