colourful chicken and pepper terrine
which began it, to the sizzling lobsters in their wine and cream sauce.
Afterwards, Eliot opted for cheese, while Natalie sampled out-of-season
strawberries in a filigree pastry basket.
'I'm glad you recovered your appetite,' Eliot said silk- ily, as the waiter
refilled their coffee cups.
Natalie sighed with happy repletion. 'It's a pity we can't do this every time a
new owner sends us his horses,' she said dreamily, then blushed. 'I mean—I
didn't mean...'
'Don't apologise.' Eliot reached across the table and took her fingers in his. 'I
think it's a fantastic idea.'
He wasn't exerting the slightest pressure—she could have released herself at
any time, and she knew it. Yet suddenly every inch of skin on her body
seemed to be warning, tingling. Natalie stared down at the tablecloth,"
aware as never before of a strange, heated throb in her pulses.
She said in a choked voice, 'It's rather late. I think we should go.'There was a
pause, then Eliot nodded, and signalled to the waiter. Released, she clasped
her hands together in her lap beneath the shelter of the cloth, willing the odd
trembling to stop.
Wintersgarth was still a fair distance, she realised as she sat beside him in
the car, in a darkness which seemed too enclosed, too intimate altogether.
She touched the tip of her tongue to dry lips. If he was to stop the car in one
of these lanes—and kiss her—there wouldn't be a great deal she could do
about it.
But to her intense relief, he had no such intention. They were soon on the
main road, and heading north again.
Indeed, rather to her surprise, they were back at the stables before she knew
it. As he switched off the engine, Natalie said stiltedly, 'Thank you. That
was—very nice.'
'It was indeed,' he said gravely. 'But it's not over yet. Come round the yard
with me, and make sure everything's closed up for the night, then we'll have
a nightcap.'
Natalie hesitated, every instinct warning her to refuse, but the thought of
letting herself into the solitary darkness of the house wasn't particularly
appealing, so she accompanied him silently as he went from box to box,
checking their fastenings.
When he'd completed his rounds, she said rather breathlessly, 'I think I'd
better go straight home—if you don't mind...'
'One last drink,' he suggested. 'Then I'll walk you back to the house.'
She bit her lip. 'Well, just one.'
She stood in the russet-coloured sitting-room, feeling absurdly
self-conscious, listening to the chink of glasses, and the smothered pop of a
cork.
She gasped. 'You said—a drink,' she protested. 'Not more champagne!'
'It is a drink.' Eliot handed her the fizzing glass. 'It's not obligatory to finish
the whole bottle, unless you want to.' He touched his glass to hers. 'Cheers.'
Then he moved away to where the hi-fi was housed.
There was music in the air—not classics this time, but a woman's voice,
husky and sensuous, and unfamiliar to Natalie.
'Who—who is that?' She sat primly down on one of the sofas, smoothing her
skirt over her knees, relieved that Eliot had made no attempt to sit beside
her.
'Carly Simon,' he said. 'Your musical education has been sadly neglected.'
She took a sip of her champagne. She thought, I could really get addicted to
this stuff. Aloud she said, 'We didn't even have a record player in the house
until Dad and Beattie were married. She says he's a Philistine, and proud of
it.'
'And Tony wasn't interested either.'
She shook her head. 'Dad and he thought exactly alike—on a number of
things.' She leaned back against the soft cushions, feeling relaxation spread
through her like champagne bubbles. There was no fire in the grate tonight,
but the heating was on, and the room was warm. It was strange, but she felt
more comfortable in the flat now than she'd ever done when she lived there.
She drank some more wine, closing her eyes and absorbing the music,
letting that flow through
which began it, to the sizzling lobsters in their wine and cream sauce.
Afterwards, Eliot opted for cheese, while Natalie sampled out-of-season
strawberries in a filigree pastry basket.
'I'm glad you recovered your appetite,' Eliot said silk- ily, as the waiter
refilled their coffee cups.
Natalie sighed with happy repletion. 'It's a pity we can't do this every time a
new owner sends us his horses,' she said dreamily, then blushed. 'I mean—I
didn't mean...'
'Don't apologise.' Eliot reached across the table and took her fingers in his. 'I
think it's a fantastic idea.'
He wasn't exerting the slightest pressure—she could have released herself at
any time, and she knew it. Yet suddenly every inch of skin on her body
seemed to be warning, tingling. Natalie stared down at the tablecloth,"
aware as never before of a strange, heated throb in her pulses.
She said in a choked voice, 'It's rather late. I think we should go.'There was a
pause, then Eliot nodded, and signalled to the waiter. Released, she clasped
her hands together in her lap beneath the shelter of the cloth, willing the odd
trembling to stop.
Wintersgarth was still a fair distance, she realised as she sat beside him in
the car, in a darkness which seemed too enclosed, too intimate altogether.
She touched the tip of her tongue to dry lips. If he was to stop the car in one
of these lanes—and kiss her—there wouldn't be a great deal she could do
about it.
But to her intense relief, he had no such intention. They were soon on the
main road, and heading north again.
Indeed, rather to her surprise, they were back at the stables before she knew
it. As he switched off the engine, Natalie said stiltedly, 'Thank you. That
was—very nice.'
'It was indeed,' he said gravely. 'But it's not over yet. Come round the yard
with me, and make sure everything's closed up for the night, then we'll have
a nightcap.'
Natalie hesitated, every instinct warning her to refuse, but the thought of
letting herself into the solitary darkness of the house wasn't particularly
appealing, so she accompanied him silently as he went from box to box,
checking their fastenings.
When he'd completed his rounds, she said rather breathlessly, 'I think I'd
better go straight home—if you don't mind...'
'One last drink,' he suggested. 'Then I'll walk you back to the house.'
She bit her lip. 'Well, just one.'
She stood in the russet-coloured sitting-room, feeling absurdly
self-conscious, listening to the chink of glasses, and the smothered pop of a
cork.
She gasped. 'You said—a drink,' she protested. 'Not more champagne!'
'It is a drink.' Eliot handed her the fizzing glass. 'It's not obligatory to finish
the whole bottle, unless you want to.' He touched his glass to hers. 'Cheers.'
Then he moved away to where the hi-fi was housed.
There was music in the air—not classics this time, but a woman's voice,
husky and sensuous, and unfamiliar to Natalie.
'Who—who is that?' She sat primly down on one of the sofas, smoothing her
skirt over her knees, relieved that Eliot had made no attempt to sit beside
her.
'Carly Simon,' he said. 'Your musical education has been sadly neglected.'
She took a sip of her champagne. She thought, I could really get addicted to
this stuff. Aloud she said, 'We didn't even have a record player in the house
until Dad and Beattie were married. She says he's a Philistine, and proud of
it.'
'And Tony wasn't interested either.'
She shook her head. 'Dad and he thought exactly alike—on a number of
things.' She leaned back against the soft cushions, feeling relaxation spread
through her like champagne bubbles. There was no fire in the grate tonight,
but the heating was on, and the room was warm. It was strange, but she felt
more comfortable in the flat now than she'd ever done when she lived there.
She drank some more wine, closing her eyes and absorbing the music,
letting that flow through
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