Rachel Lindsay - Food for Love Read online

  As Mr. Thomas had promised, she was sitting next to him and his wife, and she wended her way towards them, conscious of many male eyes following her progress.

  Introductions made, she sat at the table, listening to Mrs. Thomas's superficial chatter and watching the colourful scene. Brands certainly spared no expense when it came to entertaining their staff; the large ballroom was packed with people, the majority of whom seemed to be dancing. Blue and white striped cloths— the Brands' colour scheme for their stores—covered beautifully laid tables whose assorted cutlery signified the elaborate meal to come.

  'Would you care to dance with me?' Mr. Thomas asked. Amanda glanced quickly at his wife, who nodded her grey head encouragingly.

  'I'm not one for dancing, myself,' she said cheer- i fully, 'but George likes to show what he can do on the floor.'

  Mr. Thomas certainly did. Behind his desk he might be punctilious and ponderous, but on the dance floor he was a veritable Astaire, twirling Amanda around until she was breathless.

  As though at a signal, people moved to the side of the floor, and Amanda saw with horror that they were being left to perform on their own.

  'This is the way I like floors to be,' said Mr. Thomas, deftly two-stepping as the band, seeing what was happening, played with even more enthusiasm. 'Never told you I was a ballroom champion, did I?'

  'No,' said Amanda, and hoped her sari would not fall down around her feet. But apart from a few red-gold tendrils which clung damply to her forehead, she returned to the table unscathed, and was about to sit down when Mr. Thomas clutched her arm.

  'Mr. Brand's coming over,' he whispered, and turned with a nervous smile to greet him.

  Amanda had not given much thought to the man who had transformed Brands from a group of small shops to an important supermarket chain, but she was surprised by her first sight of Clive Brand, for he was completely different from her idea of a business tycoon. He was quiet and soft-spoken, with the restrained manner of an accountant rather than the self-made man she knew him to be. Grey hair at his temples and fine lines at the corners of his dark brown eyes showed him to be nearer forty than thirty, an impression confirmed by the small controlled mouth and smiling, but faintly aloof, expression. Here was a man who gave careful thought to every word he spoke; a far cry from the brash grocer image!

  'I didn't know you were such an excellent dancer, Mr. Thomas.' Clive Brand's voice was as cultivated as his appearance, though it had an unexpected Canadian twang.

  'I was lucky enough to find an excellent partner,' Mr. Thomas said with unexpected panache.

  Dark brown eyes fixed themselves on Amanda and hastily Mr. Thomas made the introduction. Amanda felt her hand clasped in a cool firm one, and almost before she was aware of it, found herself on the dance floor again.

  'I'm afraid I'm a more inhibited dancer,' dive Brand apologised.

  She smiled without comment, and for several moments they danced in silence. Close to him she realised he was slightly under average height, though he gave the appearance—because of his erect carriage—of being taller. He was certainly strong, for the arm around her waist was hard and sinewy, as were his shoulders beneath her hand. He seemed content to dance in silence, but glancing at him as the music stopped and he escorted her to her table, she saw he was watching her with an intensity she found unnerving.

  'There is no Indian blood in you, Miss Stewart,' he said.

  It took her a moment to realise what he meant, then she threw back her head and laughed. 'Only an Indian landlady! She gave me this sari as a present.'

  'It suits you. It's an unusual outfit.'

  'Does that mean I'm unusual?' she asked, and then stopped, remembering who he was.

  'Beauty like yours is extremely unusual,' he replied.

  Amanda was glad they had reached the table, for it saved her the embarrassment of replying. 'Thank you for the dance, Mr. Brand.'

  'I must thank you.' He smiled fleetingly at the other occupants of the table and moved across to the next one.

  He's obviously doing his duty dances, Amanda thought half-regretfully, as she settled herself down, but she had no more time for regret, for she was immediately asked on to the floor again. During the evening she caught the occasional glimpse of Clive Brand dancing with different women: the budding, ready-to- give-birth Mrs. Grant; hatchet-faced Mrs. Atkins who ran the accounts department, and the various regally gowned wives of his co-directors. Once his eyes met hers, but there was no recognition in them and, annoyed with herself for having expected it, she focused her attention on her partner, giving him such a beaming smile that he was emboldened to take advantage of it.

  'You didn't come here with anyone, did you?’ he asked and, as she shook her head, said: 'Then I hope you'll let me take you home.'

  She gave a non-committal murmur, deciding that to accept Rodney Marsh's offer would result in unwanted gymnastics in the front seat of his car.

  But he was not easy to elude, and when she went to the cloakroom to collect her coat later that evening, he went determinedly with her.

  'We'll be happy to give you a lift, Miss Stewart,' Mr. Thomas said, catching sight of her as she re-emerged. 'Stay and talk to my wife while I see about a taxi.'

  'I'm taking Amanda home,' Rodney Marsh said cheerily.

  'I don't want to bother anyone,' Amanda interposed. 'It will be more convenient if I make my own way.'

  'Don't be silly,' Rodney said, and put his arm around her shoulder. 'I'd love to take you home.'

  'I don't doubt it,' she muttered, and tried to extricate herself from his hold.

  'Don't be scared,' he grinned. 'I'm harmless.'

  'I'm sure you are,' she lied, and again tried to wriggle free.

  'There you are, Miss Stewart,' a quiet voice said. 'I wondered whether you'd forgotten your promise to let me drive you home.'

  Startled, she turned her head and saw Clive Brand. Rodney's arm fell away from her and with relief she stepped clear of him. 'Of course I haven't forgotten, Mr. Brand,' she said smoothly, and murmuring goodnight to a stupefied Mr. and Mrs. Thomas and Rodney, she followed the head of Brands out of the carpeted foyer and into the back of a chauffer-driven Rolls-Royce.

  'You saved my life,' she said frankly.

  'I was rather thinking of your virtue.'

  The reply was so quietly made that it nearly passed her by, and her eyes narrowed as she looked at him in the gloom. He was sitting back in the corner, one well- tailored leg crossed over the other, his arms folded across his chest.

  'He did you know I was having trouble with Rodney?' she asked artlessly.

  'I was watching you for most of the evening.'

  'I didn't notice.'

  'I would have been annoyed with myself if you had.'

  Again it was a remark that took digesting, and she chewed upon it carefully. There was more to this soft- spoken man than she had realised. Aware that he was her employer, she said carefully: 'It was kind of you to take me home. So many men think the offer of a lift is a licence for a free-for-all.'

  'In my case, Miss Stewart, the warning is uncalled- for.'

  She went scarlet. 'I didn't mean———- '

  'I think you did.' His small mouth curved in a smile.

  'But I assure you I have no designs upon your honour.'

  'Good,' she said in a little voice, and wished she could find a hole to bury herself in.

  'I have other designs on you, though,' he continued, and as her startled gaze came up to his, added: 'Are you free to have dinner with me tomorrow? I'm sorry to make it such short notice, but I'm leaving for Montreal at the end of the week and I would like to see you before I go.'

  'I'm free,' she said breathlessly, 'and I'd love to have dinner with you.'

  'I'll call for you at eight, then. If it's a nice evening wear something casual and we'll have dinner in the country.'

  He lapsed into silence, not speaking again until the Rolls stopped outside the terraced house in Camden Town and the chauffeur opened the car door for her.

  'Until tomorrow, Miss Stewart,' he said, and waited till she had stepped into the small hallway before signalling his car to drive away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Amanda saw Clive Brand three times before he went to Canada. As arranged, he called for her the night after the staff dance—driving the Rolls himself—and took her to a quiet but expensive restaurant near Maidenhead where, at a table overlooking the river, she dined on the first of the season's grouse. Expecting to be in awe of him, she was surprised how easy it was to talk to him, though he himself talked little. Indeed, in order to find out about him she had been forced to ask Mr. Thomas, who informed her that Brands supermarkets spanned both sides of the Atlantic, being as well known in Canada as they were in England.

  'Mr. Brand settled in London ten years ago,' he had concluded. 'I'm not sure why he made his home here. Maybe he prefers the life.'

  This was one question Amanda felt she could ask Clive Brand without being considered inquisitive, and on her third evening with him she did so. 'Do you live in England from choice or because of business commitments?'

  'From choice. I originally planned to stay here a couple of years—till I'd got Brands fully organised— but London grew on me. It has a quietness and detachment which I enjoy. People leave you alone here, if you want to be left alone.'

  'Don't they in Canada?'

  'Oh, sure, but I'm too well known over there ever to get real anonymity.'

  Tentatively she considered the next question she wanted to ask, but decided against voicing it.

  'I'm a widower,' he said, as if aware this had been the question in her mind. 'And back home I was the target for every match-making mother!'

  'Doesn't that apply over here too?' Amanda smiled.


  'Not with such insistence. Anyway, I pretend I've got a murky past. That at least keeps the fledglings off my back!'

  She laughed outright at this. 'I can't imagine anyone thinking of you as a wolf.'

  'I'm not a sheep, though.'

  His tone was so dry that she looked at him from beneath her long, dark lashes, and decided that for all his quietness Mr. Brand was certainly no sheep. The three evenings she had spent with him had made her aware of his strength, not only physical but mental, for one only had to talk with him for a short time to recognise his determination to. be a success.

  'Your thoughts are now so deep that I can't read them any more,' he said.

  'I'm glad. They were silly thoughts.'

  'I'd still like to know them.' He reached across the table and caught her hand. 'Tell me, Amanda.'

  Only rarely did he call her by her name and she had never yet called him by his, always resolutely waiting to catch his eye before speaking.

  'I was wondering why you've been taking me out,' she said candidly. 'You've gone to great pains to let me know you're not a wolf, yet…'

  'You're very beautiful and I like to be seen with beautiful women. It's good for my ego.'

  'There are other girls more beautiful than I am,' she persisted, 'and well-known ones too.'

  'I don't need to escort the famous. I have reached a stage in my life when I only go out with someone because I want to do so.' His fingers tightened around hers. 'And I want to be with you very much. I wanted it from the moment I saw you. You were the most striking-looking girl at the Dorchester that night.'

  'The only one in a sari,' she said lightly, and wondered why she should be embarrassed by the compliment. It wasn't as though she was unused to them, so perhaps it was the man himself who was affecting her; she had never before met anyone like him.

  'The sari made me notice you more quickly,' he agreed, 'but you are so beautiful I would have noticed you anyway. You should play up to your colouring, Amanda; wear things to complement your glorious hair.'

  'I used to hate it when I was a child,' she confessed. 'Even now I get murderous if anyone calls me carrot- top.'

  'I think the colour's more like a pomegranate. It has a soft, pinky gold look that I've never seen before.'

  'What a lovely compliment!'

  'I'm stating a fact.' He drew his hand away to signal for the bill, and soon they were speeding back towards London. 'I would like to show you my house,' he said suddenly. 'Unless you have any objection to coming home with me?'

  'Should I have?'

  'Remembering your reluctance to go home the other night with that young man with freckles…'

  'You're not like Rodney,' she assured him.

  'Thanks!' He glanced at her. 'I suppose I must seem old to you?'

  'I hadn't thought about it,' she lied.

  'Think about it now.'

  Embarrassed, she did so, knowing he had not made the request lightly but was waiting for her reply.

  'You're older than most of the men I've been out with,' she said slowly, 'and of course you're my boss. That makes a difference to the way I see.'

  He stopped the car with such abruptness that the seatbelt almost flattened her. 'Don't ever say that to me again! You may work for my company, but I'm not your boss.'

  Astonished at his unexpected reaction, she stared at him, and, aware of it, he seemed to realise an explanation was necessary. 'I met my wife when she was working for me, and whenever we had a row she used to say she only married me because I was her boss. As you can imagine, it rather soured me on the idea.'

  'I'm not surprised.'

  He sighed. 'We were not very happy. We separated five years ago and she died a year later.'

  'Is that why you came to England?'

  'Subconsciously perhaps, though I've always wanted to live here. The ambience of London suits me.'

  He set the car in motion again and they drove the rest of the way in companionable silence. It was ten o'clock when they reached the tall, Regency house in a small square off Hyde Park, and entering it and moving from one lovely room to another, all furnished with priceless antiques, Amanda began to appreciate what his particular ambience was.

  'Have you always been interested in the past?' she asked, her eyes ranging from the hand-tooled first editions on the library shelves to the Constables and Fantin Latours on the walls.

  'Ever since I could afford it.' He looked at her gravely. 'My father was a farmer, you know. He ground out a living in the prairie and until she was fifty the nearest my mother ever came to a house like this was a four-roomed shack.' He paused and then said: 'She died owning one of the most magnificent homes in Montreal.'

  'Is that why you set so much store by possessions?' She bit her hp. 'Forgive me, that sounded awfully rude.'

  'Don't apologise, Amanda. I like your curiosity. It at least shows you're interested in me!' He went over to a Queen Anne bureau on which stood a silver tray with a bottle of champagne reposing in an ice-bucket. 'Would you care for a drink?'

  'You're spoiling me,' she smiled as she accepted a glass from him. 'I thought champagne was only for celebrations.'

  'This is a celebration.'

  'For what?'

  'My first real evening with you.'

  'Didn't our other two evenings count?'

  'Not in the same way. You see, tonight, I made up my mind that———— ' He looked into his glass and Amanda waited, afraid without knowing why. 'I'll telephone you when I return from Canada,' he said, as though he had been talking about his trip. 'I hope to be back next Thursday, so keep the evening free. If I'm delayed, my secretary will let you know.'

  To her surprise Amanda found she was looking forward to seeing Clive Brand again, though she was honest enough to acknowledge that this might be due to who he was, rather than what he was. After all, it was difficult not to consider it a feather in her cap to have captured the attention of the man who was king of the small world in which she worked.

  She half expected him to telephone her from Canada; these days it was a matter of moments to make a transatlantic call, but he did not do so, and even on the following Thursday—when she was supposed to be seeing him—there was no word to let her know whether or not he had returned to England. Yet he had promised that his secretary would call her if he was delayed and, remembering this, she changed into one of her prettiest dresses when she came home from the office.

  'Are you seeing Mr. Brand again?' her mother asked.

  'I'm not sure.'

  'Do you think it's wise? You work for him and——— '

  'He nearly blew his top when I said that,' Amanda smiled.

  'It's the truth, and it can make things awkward for you if you don't want to see him again.'

  'I can't imagine Clive feeling awkward about anything I did,' Amanda said candidly. 'He's the most self-contained man I've ever met.'

  'Opposite from you, then. You're so transparent with your emotions you're like a book without a cover!'

  'What a devastating thing to say! I must remember to hide my feelings. It isn't good to let a man know you like him.'

  'Do you like Mr. Brand?' Mrs. Stewart asked.

  'Very much. He's so stable and steady. Not a bit the way I imagined a supermarket tycoon to be.'

  'That's because you keep thinking of the Homefare people.'

  Amanda tossed her head, but before she could reply a hooter sounded in the street and, looking through the window she saw the Rolls. With a breathless goodbye to her mother she ran downstairs.

  Sitting next to Clive, it was difficult to believe she had not seen him for a week, for his greeting was as calm as though they had only parted the night before. Yet watching him surreptitiously as he drove through the crowded streets to the West End, she thought he looked more tired than usual, and that the grey at his temples was more noticeable. It was hard enough to control a vast business complex in England, let alone one which spanned both sides of the Atlantic. Hadn't she read somewhere that jet travel was ageing, or did that only apply to travel in space?

  'Why are you smiling?' he asked.

  Unaware that she had been, she shook her head. 'It wasn't important.'