Escape for the Summer (22 page)

“See the man in the corner, the one with his wife and wearing the linen suit?” said Laurence, sotto voce and leaning forward under the guise of passing her a chunk of sun-blushed tomato artisan bread.

Angel held her hand up, declining the roll even though the mere smell of it was making her drool. Carbs were a big no no. In Rock thin was definitely in and, judging by all the Arabellas and Mintys and Millys in Laurence’s circles, even size eight was on the chunky side. She was going to have to really put her mind to it and get down to a six. Carbs were the devil and to be avoided at all times.

Peering over Laurence’s Pierre Cardin-clad shoulder, Angel saw a very scruffy-looking man tearing into a crab like a dog worrying a bone. Bits of flesh speckled his chin and dotted the tablecloth like pink dandruff.

“That’s Rupert de Lacey, Earl of Russex,” Laurence told her in hushed tones. “Sixth-richest man in England, I believe. Great shot apparently, but an absolute bore about hunting. Pa fagged for him at Eton.”

Angel nodded sagely, although to be honest she didn’t have the foggiest what Laurence was on about. Aristocrats, she was learning, had their own special language and half the time she was completely confused. They also seemed to operate in a very small pond; it was all Binky this, Dizzy that and Fatty the other. Everyone had rowed/been debs/hunted (delete as appropriate) together, and keeping track of it all was proving very complicated. Still, she was certainly impressed that Laurence knew all these people. When he’d mentioned Prince Harry she’d nearly passed out from sheer excitement.

“Dreadful bore old Rupe,” Laurence confided, topping up her champagne glass with a flourish. “And his daughter looks like a horse. Ma had her lined up for me at one point. Believe me, I was not impressed. I like riding horses but I certainly drew the line at Arabella de Lacey!”

Angel giggled and flicked her golden tresses (another set of new extensions, courtesy of Vanya’s hairdresser) over her shoulders. She knew that nobody could ever accuse her of looking like a horse, unless you counted a very pretty My Little Pony,
all sweeping mane, long eyelashes and delicate features. Every penny she’d earned this week had instantly been spent on beauty treatments and new clothes; catching sight of her reflection in a spoon, Angel was certain it was money well spent. The floaty jade dress from Ghost was a perfect contrast to her blue eyes, and the expensive French pedicure looked perfect with her Gina sandals. So, Gemma had gone mental when Angel hadn’t been able to produce her third of the caravan rent, but that was Gemma for you. She was just totally short-sighted. Angel had tried to explain that this was an investment for the future, but Gemma hadn’t been convinced. Then again, thought Angel despairingly, Gemma was the girl who wanted to lose weight but had ended up working in a bakery. There was just no helping some people.

While Laurence entertained her with an amusing anecdote about what he’d got up to at William and Kate’s wedding reception, Angel congratulated herself for approximately the millionth time on finding somebody like him. In all her wildest dreams she’d never imagined that within days of arriving in Rock she’d have met a viscount. And not the chocolate biscuit kind that Gemma was so well acquainted with, either, but a real live, genuine viscount. The Eighth Viscount Kenniston, actually of Kenniston Hall in Devon where his family had lived for centuries in their sprawling mansion.

She took a mouthful of champagne, loving the way the cold biscuity bubbles exploded across her tongue. This was the life! Unlike her sister – who seemed happy to drink coffee with an odd-job man who, good-looking as he undoubtedly was, lived in overalls and on his sister’s charity – Angel was looking for the finer things in life. With Laurence she had certainly hit the jackpot. The Aston Martin, the fantastic house overlooking Daymer Bay and the Quink-blue blood were all right at the top of her wish list.

What Angel hadn’t expected though, and what was actually a lovely bonus, was that Laurence Elliott was not only funny, with a sense of humour drier than the champagne she was currently enjoying, but also absolutely gorgeous. When he placed his hand in the small of her back to guide her across the street her nerve endings fizzed and her heart rate quickened. Yesterday, as they’d sunbathed on the deck of his huge
White Shark
and he’d rubbed Ambre Solaire across her shoulders, Angel had been possessed by the strongest urge to flip over on her back so that he could continue with the rest of her. Luckily Laurence wasn’t a mind reader and she was able to hide her blushes beneath her sun hat, but Angel was certainly alarmed by the strength of her attraction to him. That was never part of the plan. At night she lay awake in her narrow bunk, unable to sleep for thinking about him, her body restless and her heart rate like something from
Casualty.
It was as though her sexual organs were plugged into the mains. What was going on here?

Just looking at him across the table now was enough to tie her stomach up in delicate knots. This was only their third date – or fourth if you counted the meeting in the bank and the drive back to Vanya and Vassilly’s house – but already Angel was worried that she was becoming just a little addicted to those clipped tones, tangled dark lashes and searching pewter eyes. So far though, Laurence had been a total gentleman, not even so much as leaning in for a chaste kiss. She looked down at her starter, something elaborate and scallopy, and her tummy twisted with longing.

Oh dear. She had to play it cool. To feel like this was most unexpected.

Laurence raised his glass in his slim hand. His gaze took a leisurely trip over her face and Angel felt her cheeks flush.

“You look absolutely stunning,” he said softly. “I must be the luckiest man in Cornwall.”

There was a glitter in those grey eyes. Maybe, just maybe, this would be the evening when he made his move? Angel was not used to guys playing it cool. Normally that was her role, and to have it flipped was confusing.

She raised an eyebrow. “Just Cornwall?”

Laurence grinned. Goodness, but his teeth were white. “How very remiss of me to leave out the entire country, if not the world. I apologise. How can I ever make amends?”

Angel drained her glass. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to drinking vintage bubbly like water. “Another bottle of this might help,” she told him.

For a split second he hesitated. Had she gone too far, Angel worried? They were drinking the most expensive champagne in the house. If Andi had seen the price of it, she would have had a fit and started to lecture her sister about waste/paying off debts/being greedy, but Angel wasn’t worrying. This was on Laurence, after all, and he was a viscount and seriously wadded. They probably bathed in the stuff at Kenniston Hall. She hoped she hadn’t made some awful social gaffe by requesting more? She’d already ordered lobster, one of the most expensive things on the menu, so champagne was a must really, wasn’t it?

But she needn’t have worried, because Laurence was already ordering and moments later another bottle was cooling in an ice bucket.

“To you, Angelique Evans,” Laurence declared as he poured another glass and toasted her. They smiled at each other across the table and her heart somersaulted. God, but he really was yummy. She just wanted to reach out and sweep that lock of hair out of his grey eyes. To distract her hands she turned her attention to her starter. To be honest Angel didn’t really like seafood, which was a bit of a menace seeing as they were in Rick Stein’s, but she did her best to swallow a couple of mouthfuls.

“So, Angel,” he continued, those grey eyes, the irises circled with black as though an artist had drawn around them with a fine liner, holding hers, “we’ve spent some time together and I feel that I’ve talked far too much about myself and not let you have a word in edgeways.”

Quite frankly, Angel was perfectly happy with this arrangement. She knew loads about Kenniston, Eton, Aston Martins and the Royals, which was fantastic. They’d talked about music and theatre and clubs they both enjoyed, but so far Angel had managed to shy away from any questions about herself. Whenever she’d met up with Laurence she’d made sure that either he’d picked her up from the Alexshovs’ stunning house or she’d joined him down in Rock. If he’d assumed that she lived in that breathtaking architect-designed pile and that the beautiful chauffeur-driven Bentley was hers, then that wasn’t Angel’s fault, was it? Andi, who didn’t have to meet certain standards to drink coffee with her odd-job man, might look disapproving – but technically Angel hadn’t lied.

Laurence steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Tell me about
you
.”

She stabbed at a scallop. “There’s nothing much to tell.”

“Now, that I don’t believe for a minute. You’re a mystery, Angel Evans. So far I know where you live...”

Thank God he didn’t. The mere thought of Laurence rocking up to her tatty caravan was enough to bring Angel out in a most unladylike sweat.

“I know your family has a penchant for Sunseekers...”

The Alexshovs were more or less her family, Angel reasoned. She worked for them, after all, which made them
her
family she worked for. It wasn’t a fib.

“And I now know that you don’t like scallops,” he finished, reaching across the table and gently removing the fork from her grasp. “But apart from that, you are an enigma.”

“You’ve summed me up,” agreed Angel swiftly. “How were your mussels?”

But Laurence wasn’t going to be put off that easily. “You already know that I’m an idle aristo happy to fritter away my inheritance,” he continued, “but what do
you
do when you’re not with your family? You mentioned your London pad. Where is it? Kensington? Chelsea? If so, I’m amazed they haven’t snapped you up for
MIC
.” He pulled a mock-sad face. “Apparently, I was far too wooden!”

Made in Tooting Bec
hardly had the same ring to it. Crossing her fingers and hoping that the nuns at school had been wrong about eternal hellfire and damnation, Angel said, “Clapham, actually.” Well, Andi had lived there, hadn’t she? Even if it was in the crappy bit. Since they were sisters it was practically the same thing.

He nodded. “Up and coming, I know. That’s a smart investment. And do you live with friends?”

“Just my flatmate, Gemma,” said Angel. “She’s a model.”

Laurence looked suitably impressed. Angel just hoped he never met Gemma or came across that advert for control pants.

“And what about you?” he was asking. “Do you model?”

Although in her fantasies Angel did indeed give Lily and Cara a run for their money, in reality (which was sadly where she lived most of the time) she was far too short to model anything except stilts.

“I work in fashion and beauty,” she hedged, which was almost true.

Laurence looked dangerously as though he was on the brink of asking her more about this, but a waiter glided over to clear their table and the moment was lost. Steering the conversation back into safer waters, Angel let him chat about Kenniston Hall and his mother. Laurence was totally devoted to both and as he described the antics of his forebears he became very animated.

“So the Fifth Viscount nearly lost the entire place on the turn of the dice,” he finished. “Luckily for the family, his wife shot the cards off the table with a blunderbuss, or we’d have been homeless. He went down in history as the Elliott who nearly lost the family seat.” A shadow flickered over his face. “Not a good legacy. Nobody wants to be the heir who loses the place. That’s not going to happen on my watch.”

“It must be quite a responsibility, inheriting a family seat,” Angel observed.

A muscle twitched in his cheek. “You could say so. Sometimes I think it might have been easier to be a media mogul or a city boy. Still, enough of that. Here’s the main course. And doesn’t it look wonderful?”

Wonderful wasn’t quite the adjective that sprang to mind. Angel stared at the enormous lobster, Katie Price pink and still complete with claws, antennae and beady black eyes, gazing resentfully up at her. While the waiter draped a snowy white napkin over her lap, all she could think was how the hell was she supposed to eat the thing? It was still in its bloody shell!

The truth was that Angel had never eaten a lobster in her life. She’d only ordered it tonight because it was a) expensive and b) the sort of thing she imagined wealthy people ate. The embarrassing truth was that the only fish Angel liked tended to be smothered in batter and served with big fat chips – which, Angel had decided, wasn’t quite the chosen dish of a viscount’s dinner companion. Angel felt close to panic. She’d assumed there would be somebody on hand to serve it up to her, but instead all she had was a small mallet and something that looked like a pickaxe.

Oh God. She’d wanted dinner, not a mining expedition.

“Is everything all right?” Laurence looked concerned when she didn’t dive into the lobster. If in fact this was what she was meant to do? Angel didn’t have a clue. Did she wallop it? Tap it? Call a vet?

She bit her lip. This was it. One lobster and her cover was blown. If she got this wrong, gorgeous, titled Laurence would realise within seconds that she wasn’t quite the sophisticated seafood-eating woman she’d made herself out to be.

“That’s a beauty, isn’t it?” he said admiringly. “I adore lobster.”

Angel almost asked him why, in that case, he’d plumped for goujons of lemon sole, grilled with sea salt and lime. Then she had a brainwave of such genius that she thought it a miracle Mensa didn’t sign her on the spot.

“Then why don’t you share it with me?” she suggested. “There’s far more than I can eat. Besides, I’ll struggle to even get into it with these!” She held up her brand new acrylics and waggled her fingers at him. Saved by her nails! Andi was wrong yet again: good acrylics really
were
an investment.

Laurence raised an eyebrow. “They look lethal. Fear not, I’d be delighted to do the honours.”

He set about the lobster with all the deft skill of a surgeon in theatre while Angel watched avidly. So that was how it was done. Honestly, if only they had taught lobster dissection in school rather than all those theories and formulae. Angel had yet to come across a use for quadratic equations but couldn’t help thinking that being able to disembowel a lobster would have been very helpful indeed.