In The Millionaire's Possession. Sara Craven

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      Brows rose, and they exchanged glances. The blonde said, ‘I think you’ll find you were sent one following your original enquiry, Miss Frayne.’

      ‘Indeed I was,’ Helen agreed. ‘But unfortunately it’s at home, and there are a few details I need to check.’ She paused. ‘So—if it’s not too much trouble …?’

      There was another exchange of glances, then the receptionist opened with ill grace a drawer in her large desk, and took out a plastic-encased folder, which she handed to Helen.

      ‘One per application is the norm, Miss Frayne,’ she said. ‘Please look after it.’

      ‘I shall treasure it,’ Helen assured her. As she moved to put the pack in her briefcase, she was suddenly aware of footsteps crossing the foyer behind her. And at the same time, as if some switch had been pulled, the haughty stares from the other two girls vanished, to be replaced by smiles so sweet that they were almost simpering.

      Helen felt as if icy fingers were tracing a path down her spine as instinct told her who had come to join them.

      She turned slowly to face him, schooling her expression to indifference.

      ‘Making sure I leave the building, monsieur?’

      ‘No, merely going to my own next appointment, mademoiselle.’ His smile mocked her quite openly. He glanced at the pack she was still holding. ‘And my name is Delaroche,’ he added softly. ‘Marc Delaroche. As I would have told you earlier, had you asked.’

      He watched with undisguised appreciation as Helen struggled against an urge to hurl the pack at his head, then made her a slight bow as upbringing triumphed over instinct and she replaced it on the desk.

      She said icily, ‘I merely wanted something to read on the train. But I can always buy a paper.’

      ‘But of course.’ He was using that smile again, but this time she was braced against its impact.

      ‘A bientôt,’ he added, and went, with a wave to the other two, who were still gazing at him in a kind of dumb entrancement.

      ‘See you soon’, Monsieur Delaroche? Helen asked silently after his retreating back. Is that what you just said to me? She drew a deep breath. My God, not if I see you first.

      She was disturbingly aware of that same brief shiver of ice along her nerve-endings. As if in some strange way she was being warned.

      Marc Delaroche had said he had an appointment, but all the same Helen was thankful to find him nowhere in sight when she got outside the building.

      She’d thought her nervousness would dissipate now that the interview was over, but she was wrong. She felt lost, somehow, and ridiculously scared. Perhaps it was just the noise and dirt of London that was upsetting her, she thought, wondering how Nigel could relish working here amid all this uproar.

      But at least she could seize the opportunity of seeing him while she was here, she told herself, producing her mobile phone. Before she got her train back to the peace of the countryside and Monteagle.

      He answered at once, but he was clearly not alone because she could hear voices and laughter in the background, and the clink of glasses.

      ‘Helen?’ He sounded astonished. ‘Where are you ringing from?’

      ‘Groverton Street,’ she said. ‘It isn’t too far from where you work.’ She paused. ‘I thought maybe you’d buy me lunch.’

      ‘Lunch?’ he echoed. ‘I don’t think I can. I’m a bit tied up. You should have told me in advance you were coming up today, and I’d have made sure I was free.’

      ‘But I did tell you,’ Helen said, trying to stifle her disappointment. ‘I’ve just had my interview with Restauration International—remember?’

      ‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘Yes, of course. I’ve been so busy it completely slipped my mind.’ He paused. ‘How did it go anyway?’

      ‘Pretty well, I think—I hope.’ Helen tried to dismiss the thought of Marc Delaroche from her mind.

      One man, she thought. One dissenting voice. What harm could he really do?

      ‘They seemed interested,’ she added. ‘Sympathetic—for the most part. And they said I’d know by the end of the month, so I’ve less than ten days to wait.’

      ‘Well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,’ Nigel said. ‘And maybe—under the circumstances—I could manage lunch after all. Celebrate a little. It’s certainly the most hopeful result you’ve had.’ He paused again. ‘I’ll need to pull a few strings, change things around a little, but it should be all right. Meet me at the Martinique at one clock.’

      ‘But I don’t know where it is,’ she protested.

      ‘But the cab driver will,’ he said with a touch of exasperation. ‘It’s new, and pretty trendy. Everyone’s going there.’

      ‘Then will we get a table?’ Helen asked, wondering, troubled, whether she could afford the price of a taxi.

      He sighed. ‘Helen, you’re so naïve. The bank has a standing reservation there. It’s not a problem. Now, I must go. See you later.’

      She switched off her phone and replaced it slowly in her bag. It sounded rather as if Nigel had gone to this Martinique place already. But then why shouldn’t he? she reminded herself impatiently. Entertaining the bank’s clients at smart restaurants was part of his job. It was all part of the world he inhabited, along with platinum cards, endless taxis, and first-class tickets everywhere.

      Yet she’d travelled up on a cheap day return, needed to count her pennies, and most of her entertaining involved cheese on toast or pasta, with a bottle of cheap plonk shared with Lottie or another girlfriend.

      Nigel belonged to a different world, she thought with a pang, and it would require a quantum leap on her part to join him there.

      But I can do it, she told herself, unfastening the constriction of the black ribbon bow and shaking her hair loose almost defiantly. I can do anything—even save Monteagle. And nothing’s going to stop me.

      Her moment of euphoria was brought to a halt by the realisation that lack of funds might well prevent her from completing even the minor mission of reaching the restaurant to meet Nigel.

      However, with the help of her A to Z and a copy of Time Out, she discovered that the Martinique was just over a mile away. Easy walking distance, she decided, setting off at a brisk pace.

      She found it without difficulty, although the search had left her hot and thirsty.

      Its smart black and white awning extended over the pavement, shading terracotta pots of evergreens. Helen took a deep breath and walked in. She found herself in a small reception area, being given a questioning look by a young man behind a desk.

      ‘Mademoiselle has a reservation?’

      ‘Well, not exactly—’ she began, and was interrupted by an immediate shake of the head.

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