'No romance,' she repeated neutrally.
'What about before Simon came on the scene?'
'Do you want the story of my life?' she asked, exasperated, and sighed when he nodded. 'No, there was no one before Simon.'
'Just establishing precedence,' he mocked. 'So there's only been one man in your life, and he put you to sleep. It's about time you were woken up.'
'Have we swopped fairy-tales now?' Oddly enough she did feel as if she had woken from a long sleep—dazed and heavy, and filled with languid longings. She used her cutlery slowly, deliberately, aware of the eyes on her mouth as she ate, making of it a sensuous act. The rich white béarnaise sauce was redolent of tarragon and chives, which she would forever after associate with this meal.... this man. She sipped her wine, and the ruby liquid left her mouth warm and red.
'I think we're going to create a tale all of our own,' he replied. He seemed on the verge of saying more, but restrained himself. At times this evening he had seemed almost hesitant, as if pondering the consequences of what he was doing, and at others he had given her potent reminders that he was not a man to give up easily, if at all, once his mind was made up.
Sarah waited until their plates had been removed before bursting out with: 'This is absurd, I hardly know you!'
'That's the way it takes you, sometimes.' He declined coffee with a brief gesture of his head while a steaming cup was set in front of Sarah. 'But if you want to know anything, ask—I can't guarantee that you will like the answers you get, but they'll be honest answers.'
Sarah opened her mouth and shut it again, and laughed ruefully. 'I can't think of a question now, not when you're looking at me like that.'
'Is this better?' He dutifully averted his eyes, chin on hand, to study the ornate silver salt-cellar on their table. It was; relieved of the searching intensity of his gaze Sarah found her tongue, and asked, her interest stimulated by their earlier conversation:
'Are you and your father very close?'
The slender fingers stilled on the scrolled silverwork and his lowered lashes flickered. She knew he had been expecting a question about past love affairs, or whether his rakish reputation was earned, but strangely neither really mattered to Sarah any more. She was with him now, and that was enough. But she was interested in what made him tick as a person—what motivated his singular drive. 'You can look at me now,' she told him blandly.
'You make a career of being unexpected, don't you?' he told her and linked his hands as he applied himself to satisfying her curiosity. 'No, my father and I are not close.
We're too alike in some ways to get on well, in others we're too different.'
'How different?' she prodded, pleased to be the examiner for once.
'He believes talent and temperament are inseparable. I don't. I believe that self-discipline enhances and concentrates a talent, in whatever field. My father does everything to excess, except parenting. He had a distinct lack of talent in that area, as did my mother.'
'So you don't live together?'
'God no!' He looked appalled at the very thought. 'We deal very well together at a distance. In spite of his failings as a father, or perhaps because of them, he seems to be developing a compulsive need to meddle in my life—both personal and business—and refuses to concede that I am more than capable of dealing with my own problems.'
'A fairly common complaint among sons, I would imagine,' said Sarah, amused by the aggrieved note in his voice, and wondering what specific remembrance had induced it.
'Perhaps,' he allowed. 'But I have achieved my present position with very little help from him—' He saw her scepticism. 'It's true, intentionally or unintentionally he made things very difficult for me during my formative years with the company. Perhaps he feared that one day I would push him out.'
'And would you?'
A faint smile. 'No. I think that has been proved beyond doubt.'
'What do you mean?' she asked curiously.
He seemed to give himself a mental shake. 'I mean I recently discovered that I have no wish to crush the old man, even if it's in my power to do so. He may infuriate me, but he is my father, and a designer of undisputed genius.'
'Is that why you didn't become a designer? Because you didn't want to compete with him on his own ground?' asked Sarah with sudden insight.
'No, I—' He stopped, and a brief expression of confusion passed over his face. 'At least I don't think so, I've never been interested in designing—'
'That doesn't answer the question.'
'No, it doesn't, does it?' She saw him smile and erect the 'no entry' sign. 'I think this conversation is getting a little . . . involved.'
'You didn't say that when I was the one under the microscope,' Sarah accused, not wanting to let him off the hook so easily.
'You're a more interesting specimen than I,' he told her, with adroit insincerity and she had to laugh.