Sweet Deception (26 page)

At the back of my wardrobe, I'd found a strapless black cocktail dress, and teamed it with a pair of black heels and a fitted jacket—a simple, classic look. I'd kept my make-up light, like I had the previous evening, and found a YouTube video to teach me how to fashion my hair into an elegant chignon. It took a few tries, but eventually I'd got it—or so I thought. My final test had been coming out here, to see what Lindsay thought. And she obviously wasn't impressed.

I wiped a hand over my face, inadvertently pulling some strands of hair, and disturbing the style I'd spent hours perfecting. “Maybe I should just cancel this whole thing.” I spoke almost to myself. “I don't know what I was thinking . . .”

This felt even more nerve-wracking than the time we'd been going for lunch with my parents a couple of weeks ago. I was so used to wearing what I wanted and not giving a damn that caring about what I looked like was a whole new experience for me.

Lindsay jumped up. “What? You want to cancel? No way!”

Now I was confused. “But you seemed so shocked—”

“Because you look so
different.
” She came to stand in front of me. “All dressed up like that.” She gave a soft, proud smile. “You look amazing.”

Relief flooded through me. “Really?”

“Richard won't know what hit him.” I felt a blush rising in my cheeks, and Lindsay peered at me closely. “God, you really like him, don't you? I've never seen you care what a guy thinks before.”

Thankfully before I had a chance to respond, the intercom sounded, making us both jump. It was Richard's driver, here to take me to him. I felt my stomach start to churn again.

Lindsay must have seen the worry on my face, because she wrapped me in her arms. “Now forget all your worries, and just go and have a wonderful time.” She pulled away a little and gave me a suggestive wink. “And I better not see you back here before lunchtime tomorrow at the earliest!”

I turned away then, not wanting her to see that the last comment had made my cheeks turn an even deeper shade of red. I didn't understand what was happening to me. Usually I had no problem telling my best friend the most intimate details of my sex life, and now I was blushing at even the suggestion of physical contact.

Downstairs I found the chauffeur-driven black Mercedes that Richard had sent to pick me up. The driver—a young, good-looking man in a dark suit—got out to open the door for me.

“So where are you taking me?” I asked straight off.

“Sorry, can't tell you,” he said with a smile. “I'm under strict instructions not to reveal the location.”

I thought about refusing to go anywhere until I knew more, but it seemed a bit immature, so I got into the car, and settled against the buttery leather seats.

I watched out the window as we drove through the streets of London, trying to figure out our destination. As we drove east, I realised we were heading towards Canary Wharf, which surprised me. I would have thought we'd be going out in the West End. I then started to suspect we were heading to a restaurant near to where Richard lived—that is, until we pulled up outside his apartment building.

I waited until the driver switched off the ignition. “This is where you were told to drop me?”

“That's right.” From the amused look on his face, I guessed that he'd been primed to expect my surprise. He got out and came round to open the car door for me. “Mr. Davenport said that you're to go straight up to his apartment.”

The porter on the front desk took my name, and let Richard know I was on my way. As I waited for the lift, I wondered what the hell Richard was playing at. All I could imagine was that he'd got held up, and had decided it would be easier for me to meet him here, and that we'd then go on somewhere together.

The lift reached the top floor, where Richard's apartment was located. As I stepped out, I felt the flutter of nerves return. I walked down the long carpeted corridor, and as I
rounded the corner, my heart turned over as I saw Richard standing in the doorway, looking tall and strong in faded blue jeans and a Diesel T-shirt. His feet were bare, and his usually slicked-back hair was wet and mussed up, like he'd just got out of the shower. It was the most casually dressed I'd seen him for years, and he looked far younger than usual.

As I drank him in, his eyes ran over me too, taking in the curves of my breasts and hips. It was strange, having him appraise me in that sexual way.

He took a step forwards to meet me as I drew near. “It feels almost too obvious to point out—but you look absolutely beautiful tonight.” He rested his arms lightly on my upper arms, as he bent to kiss me on both cheeks, his lips lingering a little longer than necessary. I breathed in the masculine scent of his body wash. He drew away a little, and looked down at his T-shirt and jeans. “I'm beginning to wish I'd made more of an effort now.”

I frowned a little at that, still confused about what was going on. I'd been expecting him to say he needed to change. “So we're going somewhere casual?”

He stepped back, to allow me into the hallway of his flat. “Actually, I thought we'd eat here.”

I could feel my eyes widening in surprise. “You're cooking?”

He grinned. “No need to sound quite so horrified.”

“Not horrified. Surprised.” He looked at me quizzically.
“I expected you to take me to some swanky restaurant.” As he helped me out of my jacket, I had a thought. “Or were you worried I wouldn't behave myself in public? I guess you'd rather save the fancy restaurants for the likes of Petra.” I said it jokingly, but to be honest part of me wondered if perhaps I'd hit the nail on the head.

“Is that really what you think?” He hung my jacket up, and then indicated for me to follow him along the hallway. “Because if you don't want to eat here, I'm sure I can get a reservation elsewhere—”

As Richard finished speaking, he pushed open the door to the entertaining area. I gasped as I stepped inside. Before, I'd only ever seen the place in the harsh light of day, and thought of it as a cold, sterile place. But tonight it had been transformed into the perfect romantic setting. The lights had been dimmed, and instead there was a soft, warm glow from the flames of dozens of candles placed around the room. Jazz music played softly in the background. The dark oak table had been beautifully set for two. The smell of garlic and onions and a rich, creamy sauce wafted over, reminding me of a French restaurant.

It struck me then how much effort Richard had gone to in order to make tonight special. And I'd accused him of wanting to stay in because he was too ashamed to be seen with me . . .

Richard materialised in front of me, a small smile playing
on his lips. He'd obviously guessed what was going through my mind. “Going out to a top London restaurant—I do that all the time. It means nothing to me. It's just . . . an ordinary day. And I wanted tonight to be special.” He waited a beat. “So it's up to you. We can stay here, or I can take you to a Michelin-starred restaurant . . .”

“Staying in sounds good,” I said softly. I glanced down at myself. “Only I wish you'd told me what we were doing. Then I would have worn something a bit more comfortable.”

“I did say to wear what you wanted.”

“But I didn't think you meant it!”

“Well, I can't say I'm sorry for the confusion.” His eyes swept over me again, and he looked up at me from lowered lids. “I think it worked out rather well. For me, at least.”

Unbelievably I felt myself starting to blush again. I really hoped this wasn't going to turn into a habit.

“Anyway.” Richard held out his hand, as though he was inviting me to dance. “Why don't you come this way?”

I put my hand in his, and he led me over to the kitchen. There were stools tucked under the central island. He pulled one out and gestured for me to sit down.

“Would you like something to drink?” He went over to his wine fridge, and after a second pulled out a bottle. “Champagne perhaps?”

“I didn't think you liked me drinking,” I teased.

“I don't like you so drunk that you can't stand up. There's a difference. A big difference.”

He poured me a glass of Taittinger, and then turned his attention back to cooking. I watched as he laid out pieces of pancetta on a baking tray and put them in the oven.

“I'd offer to help, but frankly my culinary skills aren't up to much.”

“Yeah, I guessed from the state of your flat that you weren't exactly a domestic goddess. But don't worry. I have it all under control. The first course should be ready soon.”

“First course?” I raised an eyebrow. “Don't tell me you're good at cooking, too?”

He half turned and grinned. “I'll let you be the judge of that.”

Ten minutes later, the starter was ready—pan-fried scallops with cauliflower purée.

He carried the plates over to the dining table, which had been set at one end, with us on corners next to each other.

“This looks fabulous,” I said, as he placed the food in front of me.

He topped up our champagne, and I raised a glass. “To a wonderful cook.”

His eyes fixed on mine. “And a wonderful evening.”

We clinked glasses. Richard held my gaze as we drank, and I felt a shiver of anticipation run through me.

*  *  *

“No wonder you have so many girlfriends,” I said, sitting back in my chair an hour later. We'd just finished the main course—rack of lamb, cooked perfectly pink, drizzled with red-wine-and-shallot jus, and served with rosemary roasted potatoes and crisp green beans. It had been just as exquisite as the starter. “If I'd known you could cook like this, I'd have gone out with you a damned sight sooner.”

Richard picked up the plates and carried them to the kitchen. “Actually, I've never cooked for anyone else before.”

“Seriously? Why not?”

He shrugged. “I just like to keep my home life separate.”

“What—from your personal life?”

He didn't answer—perhaps sensing how odd that sounded. Instead he picked up the wine bottle, and brought it over to top up our glasses. It was a rich, fruity red, to complement the lamb. He'd obviously put as much thought into the wine as the food, and I couldn't help feeling flattered. After all, I was used to guys trying to get
me
to pay for
their
drinks.

I sipped at my wine, and thought about what he'd just said, the alcohol emboldening me to pry deeper. “So, why did you cook for me, then?”

“Because I wanted tonight to be different . . . to be special.”

It was my turn to go quiet. I had no idea how to respond. This was so far out of my comfort zone.

“Anyway,” Richard said, saving me from answering, “that's enough confessions for now. How about some dessert?”

Part of me wanted to dig deeper, but there'd be time for that later. So instead, I decided to go along with him.

“Dessert?” My hand went instinctively to my stomach. “I'm not sure I can manage anything else.”

“Trust me. You'll want to make room for this.”

As he headed back to the kitchen and turned on the oven, I studied him through narrowed eyes. It was strange—I felt almost shy around him. It was ridiculous, of course, given that we'd known each other for so long, plus I wasn't exactly the kind of girl who got shy around guys. But that was how he made me feel. Then it suddenly struck me why I felt that way—I cared about how tonight turned out. Usually I didn't give a damn if I saw the guy again. But with Richard, I wanted this to work, and the pressure was making me nervous.

“Charlotte?” The sound of my name snapped me out of my reverie. I looked up to see Richard frowning at me in concern. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” And then I wondered why I was being so damned polite. If we were going to make this work, we both needed to stop being on our best behaviour. “As long as you
stop calling me that.”

“What?”

“Charlotte. I keep telling you it's Charlie, but you always insist on Charlotte. Why is that? Just to piss me off?”

“Not at all!” he protested, and then his face relaxed a little. “Well, maybe sometimes I do it to annoy you. But mostly it's just because I think Charlotte suits you better.”

“How come?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Charlie sounds like a goofy little boy—it makes me think of
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
Charlotte suits you better. It's a prettier name, more grown-up, I suppose.” I liked the sound of that. “But if it really bothers you, I'll switch to Charlie.”

When he put it like that, there wasn't much of a contest. Suddenly the name Charlotte had never sounded more desirable to me. “No. Charlotte's fine.”

“Good.” He raised an eyebrow. “So . . . what do you think about having that dessert,
Charlotte
?”

“That sounds lovely,
Richard
.”

Laughing, he headed to the oven. I watched as he plated up a perfectly round chocolate fondant, and added a scoop of vanilla ice cream and decorated it with a raspberry.

“You made that, too?” I said, as he took a sieve, and covered the top of the fondant with a dusting of confectioners' sugar. “I'm impressed. Although you do know that you can save yourself a lot of trouble and just buy ready-made ones
from the supermarket.”

Richard rolled his eyes. “Ungrateful wretch.”

He carried over the plate and placed it in front of me. I frowned. “You're not having anything?”

A slow grin spread over Richard's face. “I thought we could share. As long as you don't have any objections, that is?”

I shook my head, because I couldn't trust myself to speak. I was frozen, immobilised by the moment, and where it was going to lead. Seeming to sense my hesitation, Richard picked up a spoon and plunged it into the dessert. Hot chocolate goo oozed out. He added some ice cream, and then held the spoon out for me to try.