Sleeping Partners Page 6

  What was the matter with her for goodness’ sake? She was twenty-eight years old. A competent business woman in charge of her own life and career. She was not—repeat not, she emphasised firmly—a starry-eyed, naïve schoolgirl any more.

  She looked at her reflection in the mirror and wide dark eyes stared back at her. Hair up or down? More sophisticated up, more sexy down. It went up, with a few curling tendrils to soften the style, and after applying a touch of green eyeshadow to her eyelids and thickening her already thick lashes a little more with black mascara she was nearly ready. Deep red lipstick completed her hasty toilet, a long deep breath steadied her racing nerves and, after dabbing a little of the Givenchy perfume one of her friends had bought her for Christmas on her wrists, she shut the bathroom cabinet where she kept her make-up and opened the door. She was going to present an image as cool and remote as anything Clay projected tonight, even if it killed her.

  He thought she was a shrewd, tough businesswoman who’d had men galore and had an eye to the main chance. Fine. Better that than him finding out the truth—that she hadn’t dated in months and was that singularly incongruous anomaly, a twenty-eight-year-old virgin. Wouldn’t he just love that!

  The last thought raised her head and brought her eyes narrowing. Clay was the enemy. As long as she remembered that, everything would be all right.

  She closed the door behind her and began to climb the stairs…

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘TOPEKA’S? Have you booked a table?’

  As Clay’s Aston Martin drew up outside the restaurant and nightclub half of London would give their eye teeth to enter, Robyn spoke without thinking. Anyone who was anyone was seen at Topeka’s. It was the in place, the buzz of the metropolis, and there was nothing so sordid as prices on the menus. If one could afford to be seen in Topeka’s one could afford to pick up the tab, and as the clientele read like an excerpt from Who’s Who there was never a problem.

  ‘There’ll be a table.’ The words hadn’t left his lips before the doorman was at the car, all ingratiating smiles, saying, ‘So nice to see you again, Mr Lincoln,’ as he ushered them inside.

  Robyn saw Clay slip him the keys to the car along with a folded twenty-pound note, and her eyes widened. It was common knowledge just a few privileged customers had their own parking spots in the basement of the building; she might have known Clay would be one of them. Was he showing off? Trying to impress her? Emphasising he could afford to buy Brett PR a thousand times over?

  She cast a sidelong glance at him from under her eyelashes, and as she did so the head waiter emerged like a genie out of a lamp at their side. Again he was all teeth and bows and, although the exalted interior seemed full to Robyn, within moments they were seated at a table for two at the edge of the dance floor. A prestigious spot of course, she thought waspily.

  She tried not to stare but it was hard. There were at least three celebrities within spitting distance—not that anything so coarse could possibly occur in Topeka’s, Robyn thought wryly—and several more scattered round the room in which diamonds and Diors mingled with Guccis and Armanis in a blatant display of unlimited wealth. Never mind that some of the women present were on their third face-lift and dressed in clothes more suited to someone half their age, which they had starved their bodies to fit by the look of them—all that mattered was that they were here, now, where they could see and be seen.

  The opulent surroundings, glittering diners and expectant buzz in the air were heady, Robyn admitted to herself, as a thrill of excitement vied with the butterflies doing a flamenco in her stomach. And Clay was used to this all the time. It was a different world. She was in Clay Lincoln territory now.

  As her eyes returned to Clay, the intensity of his expression unnerved her, and foolishly she said the first thing that came into her head and was a follow-up from her last thoughts. ‘Do you come here often?’

  As soon as it was out she realised it was the oldest cliché in the world and blushed furiously, the more so when she could see quite well he was trying not to smile. ‘Fairly often.’ He settled back in his chair, perfectly relaxed and at ease. ‘Surprisingly, for these sort of places, they have an excellent chef who does the best seafood in London. The tempura king scallops with sweet chili sauce have to be tasted to be believed. All too often a place gets a reputation simply because some of the so-called beautiful people frequent it, and the food’s abysmal.’

  ‘And of course you wouldn’t be guilty of ever going anywhere just for the kudos,’ Robyn said with a tartness that surprised her before she fell silent, secretly ashamed of herself.

  He remained perfectly still, staring at her until the colour which had just begun to subside returned with fresh vigour. That had been catty, Robyn acknowledged with silent misery, and she just wasn’t like that, not normally. What was it in Clay that brought out the very worst in her? ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t very nice,’ she said quietly after taking a deep breath for courage. ‘Especially when you’ve brought me to such a wonderful place to eat. It’s no business of mine where you go or what you do.’

  ‘I’ve had worse things said to me in my time,’ Clay said drily. ‘But to answer your question…’ he sat up, leaning forward slightly and fixing her in the silver light of his eyes ‘…perhaps when I was younger I might have done what you suggested. It helped to play the game then; it was important in the business sense as well as socially. Now? No, I don’t think so. I choose where I go and who I want to be with very carefully, and purely for my own satisfaction.’

  ‘Oh.’ As always she had underestimated him and he had managed to completely take the ground from under her feet. She wasn’t at all sure if he had paid her a compliment or not for a start. Her stomach muscles tightened and she was never so pleased to see anyone as when the head waiter appeared at the table in the next instant with the cocktails Clay had ordered.

  ‘Non-alcoholic for you, Mr Lincoln? You’re driving I take it?’ the man said genially with another beaming smile.

  ‘Just so, Charles,’ Clay returned with an easy nod.

  They appeared to be on very good terms. Robyn accepted her own drink with a smile of thanks, and took a sip—finding it delicious and very definitely alcoholic!—before she glanced down at the menu which had been placed in front of her when they’d first been seated. It was written in English, German, French, Italian and what looked like Japanese, but she found most of the English terms incomprehensible so it wasn’t much help. What was Dover sole meunière when it was at home for a start? Or chicken salmagundi? Or roast langoustine with mango salsa?

  ‘Too much choice, isn’t there?’

  As she raised her eyes and looked into Clay’s face she just knew he was aware of her predicament.

  ‘Perhaps you would let me choose my favourites for you?’ he continued smoothly, the head waiter at his elbow. ‘I can thoroughly recommend the smoked ham linguini for starters.’

  She nodded in what she hoped was a cool, languid, cosmopolitan sort of way. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘The linguini, then, Charles, with perhaps the tempura king scallops to follow. And I seem to remember the white chocolate crème brlée with pineapple was particularly good last time. Do you have any of that tonight?’

  ‘For you, Mr Lincoln, I will make it myself. I will make sure it is on the dessert menu,’ the waiter said effusively.

  ‘Many thanks, Charles.’

  Did he actually like such fawning? Robyn took another sip of the vivid blue cocktail as the man whipped the menus away and then raised her gaze again to Clay’s. The crystal eyes were waiting for her. ‘It’s expected by most of the clients, Robyn,’ he said as though she had spoken the criticism out loud.

  ‘Sorry?’ She couldn’t believe he’d read her mind again.

  ‘It’s part of the illusion,’ he continued quietly. ‘Some people need it; it’s their security, their assurance that they are in control and important, that they’re impregnable.’

  She gave up trying to pretend. �
��I think that’s very sad,’ she said slowly. ‘Don’t you?’ Because he wasn’t like that. She didn’t know how she knew, she just suddenly knew she did know.

  He shrugged, the hard face closed and giving nothing away. ‘Whatever helps you sleep at night,’ he said levelly. The light above them was slanting across his face, picking out the tiny lines radiating from the corners of his eyes and his mouth and catching the odd gleam of silver in the ebony hair. But none of it detracted from his appeal; in fact the signs of maturity which hadn’t been there all those years ago added an extra dimension to the lethal attractiveness. It was a cynical face, made all the more devastating by the rugged sophistication that sat on him so easily and was a product of unlimited wealth.

  What would it be like to smooth those lines away? To kiss the cynicism from that chiselled mouth and watch it mellow and soften under warm caresses? He’d felt wonderful all those years ago.

  As soon as the thought was there Robyn was horrified, her head dropping immediately as she sought to hide her shock.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ He’d been watching her closely.

  ‘Nothing.’ Thank goodness he hadn’t been privy to that thought!

  ‘Meaning you don’t intend to tell me.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she confirmed coolly as she raised her eyes to his.

  He was grinning when she looked at him again and it did the weirdest things to her equilibrium. ‘I blame the red hair,’ he drawled mildly.

  ‘What?’ She knew exactly what he meant but wasn’t about to say so.

  ‘But who could complain about such beauty?’ he said silkily.

  He was flirting with her, creating a mood. She stared at him warily, trying to prevent every muscle in her body from turning to water. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said weakly. ‘Us being here like this. Cass should never have involved you.’

  ‘Ah, now you’ve brought it up, my proposition. Don’t you want to hear what I’ve got to say? If nothing else, that’s businesslike.’ He tilted his head, surveying her mockingly.

  Was he laughing at her? She stiffened, frowning slightly as she said, ‘I thought I’d made myself clear on that score.’

  ‘I’m willing to finance another assistant, two if the situation calls for it, but clearly there would be more to it than that.’ It was as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘We would need to get down to basic facts and figures—Cassie was somewhat vague—but the way I see it…’ He continued talking for some minutes, his tone cool and steady and matter-of-fact, and Robyn found herself listening to him with growing excitement. She tried to quell it, she really, really tried, but the future he was dangling so tantalisingly was like forbidden fruit—overwhelmingly tempting.

  ‘Of course all this would depend on my accountant looking over your accounts and so on, but I don’t foresee a problem there. Do you?’ Clay finished just as the waiter brought their first course. ‘I’m sure everything is in order.’

  ‘I… But—’

  ‘I said a sleeping partner and I meant it, Robyn. My people would need to see certain details on a regular basis, but I have more than enough to do than interfere in your business.’

  The wine waiter was hovering with the wine Clay had ordered and, once they were alone again, Robyn took a deep breath and said steadily, ‘Why, Clay? Why would you be prepared to help me like this? Are you that friendly with Cass and Guy?’

  ‘I see them rarely but I count them as good friends, besides which—if I can be crass—the amount I’m talking about here is not going to be missed quite frankly.’ His tone was almost apologetic.

  She nodded. She could believe that certainly. It was just the thought that she would be beholden to Clay Lincoln, in his debt for sure, that was hard to come to terms with. And it was only in that moment she acknowledged silently to herself that she was seriously considering his offer, the realisation causing her to choke momentarily on a piece of pasta.

  Suicide. Mental and emotional suicide one little part of her brain warned fiercely. No—he’d said he wouldn’t be around, that he had no intention of getting involved, the other part argued persuasively. He’d make this offer, set the ball rolling and then hand it over to his minions and that would be the end of that as far as he was concerned.

  But this was Clay. She hated him, she had done so for years. So what? that other voice said with silky reason. What had that to do with business? This was something quite separate from feelings.

  She took several gulps of wine to dislodge the pasta and tried to get a grip on herself. As far as Clay was concerned this was an easy answer to a request from Cass and Guy; as he’d intimated, the amount he’d put into the business—although massive to her—was a drop in the ocean to him. It would have been a deal made in heaven, the sort of thing that only happens once in a lifetime in the rat race of the business world, if only—and the if was huge—it had been someone other than Clay making the offer.

  During the course of the meal several distinguished personalities stopped at their table and exchanged a few words with Clay. He was always careful to introduce her and everyone was very polite, but more than once—especially where the female of the species was concerned—Robyn had the feeling their thoughts ran along the line of, What is he doing with her? Or perhaps she was just paranoid? But she didn’t think so.

  The meal was as delicious as Clay had promised and by unspoken mutual consent they concentrated on the good food, Clay’s conversation being as light and amusing as though this were an actual date.

  Robyn didn’t want to enjoy herself but it grew progressively hard not to. They finished the meal with a selection of cheeses and coffee and by now the dim lighting, sexy background music and general atmosphere of intimacy ephasised the fact that she was sitting opposite a twenty-four-carat male sex-bomb. He’d always had it—that undefinable something impossible to pin down but which had made certain men millions on the silver screen—but with added maturity the magnetic quality had enhanced a hundredfold.

  ‘Shall we dance?’

  ‘What?’ It was a squawk and she was instantly sixteen again, all the gloss and hard-won confidence of the intervening years swept away with just three words.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she watched Clay rise to his feet, his mouth curved in a smile and his eyes glittering as he held out his hand to her. She couldn’t do anything else but stand up; it would have been unthinkable to leave him standing there in full view of everyone. Even Clay Lincoln didn’t deserve that. Besides… Her throat went dry as her traitorous brain ruthlessly pointed out the truth. She wanted to know what it felt like to be in his arms, to be held close to him. She had never danced with him, after all.

  For the first time in her life she knew what it was to have legs of jelly as they moved out onto the small dance floor, Clay’s warm hand at her elbow. And then he turned her to face him and took her into his arms and her senses exploded.

  It was a good job he didn’t expect her to speak because conversation was quite beyond her at that moment, but as it was he merely drew her against him, his fingers splaying on the small of her back as her hands hesitantly rested on his upper arms. He felt and smelt so good—too good, she warned herself.

  You’re twenty-eight years old, running your own business, successful, worldly. She kept repeating the words over and over in her mind as they drifted round the floor until her racing heartbeat and the feeling that she was a naïve schoolgirl who didn’t know her left foot from her right began to fade. The trouble was the last few years of relentlessly hard work and effort had meant that even the limited social life she’d had before she’d started her own business had been curtailed, and after the devastating experience with Clay she had never felt really confident of her own attractiveness to the opposite sex.

  She had adopted a somewhat distant façade, one of cool friendliness as self-protection, and although she could function beautifully in her chosen career and project a boldness and self-assurance in her work and dealings with clients and contacts, Robyn the w
oman kept very much in her shell. But now that shell was being rattled…

  ‘Your hair smells of apple blossom.’ His voice was low and throaty and she had to clench her stomach muscles in order not to betray the quiver it produced.

  ‘Does it?’ As sparkling repartee it wasn’t much, but Robyn was just glad her voice sounded fairly normal when every nerve in her body was in hyperdrive.

  ‘You’ve grown into a very beautiful woman, Robyn, but then, many men must have told you that.’

  ‘A few.’ She managed to inject a laughing lightness into her tone now and was inordinately pleased with herself. Okay, so he might be the sexiest thing since sliced bread, and she had no doubt every female between sixteen and sixty in London would love to be where she was right now, but he was just a little too sure of himself! One click of his fingers and he expected the females to line up, did he? Well, not this one. No way, no how. And that held, whatever happened businesswise.

  ‘Cassie thinks you should relax more.’ One strong hand lifted her chin, his eyes holding hers easily with their penetrating silver light, and again the full impact of his handsomeness swept over her, causing her to groan silently inside. He was just too damn gorgeous to be real, that was for sure, and it wasn’t fair…

  ‘My sister worries too much,’ Robyn said with a note of dryness in her voice. If Cass had regaled him with stories of her non-existent social life she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions when she saw Cass next. ‘If it’s not Guy or the twins, then it’s me. She’ll be better when the baby arrives; she didn’t stop fussing over the twins for months—every squeak or cry had her up and running. I love her like mad but when the twins were first born it was the most peaceful few months I’d ever had. She’s a great mum, though,’ she added quickly in case he thought her words were ones of criticism. ‘Absolutely the best.’