'With temper!' said Caro sharply, then bit her lip as the waitress brought their first course.
She had been twenty-one when she'd got involved with Damian Shaw, a clever and charming young lawyer, and she was twenty-six now, but although she was over the pain of that affair, the anger she felt whenever she remembered it remained. Damian Shaw had humiliated her, made her fall in love with him while he was only pretending to care about her. All he had really cared about was her father's fortune. He had wounded her pride, as well as her heart. No man since had ever been given the chance.
'The only thing I'm carrying for Damian Shaw is a harpoon,' she said, forking a piece of melon, looking down. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the newspaper Amy had been reading while she'd waited and, before Amy had the chance to say anything else about Damian, Caro asked, 'Were you reading about Gilham Martell's fight with the Earl of Jurby? I wonder if a divorce is in the offing?'
Distracted, Amy said, 'Yes, isn't it a scream? I wish I'd been there. You know him, don't you? What's he like?'
'Who?' asked Caro blankly. 'Gil Martell.'
'I've never met him—what made you think I knew him?'
'Well, we eat at Westbrooks a lot because your father wants to buy it!'
'Ssh...' Caro said in a hurry, glancing around.
'I just thought you must know the managing director of the store,' said Amy blithely.
'Amy!' spat Caro. 'Shut up. We don't talk about business, remember?' Amy was very indiscreet; she didn't seem to understand why Caro wanted to be incognito when she visited a store her father was targeting. 'I've explained about keeping a project under wraps until it's time to...'
'Pounce,' said Amy, giggling.
'I wouldn't put it quite like that,' Caro said sharply. 'I'd have said until we were ready to show our hand.'
Amy's attention wandered as a woman in a mink hat and jacket sauntered past. 'Look—that's one of ours. Perfectly matched skins; see the smooth fan style? Gorgeous, isn't it?'
'I never wear real furs,' Caro said flatly.
'Oh, but mink aren't an endangered species!' protested Amy.
'That's no reason for killing them for their fur,' said Caro, and they got bogged down in an argument they had had many times before.
The waitress whisked their plates away and was back a moment later with their main courses.
'OK, then, what about sheep?' Amy triumphantly asked. 'I'm wearing this cream wool suit...but you don't seem bothered by that.'
'They didn't have to kill the sheep, just cut its fleece, and it was probably relieved as it's summer when they do it!' Caro glanced over the suit. 'And I bet that looks better on you than it ever did on the sheep!'
Amy giggled. 'Well, I should hope so! It is gorgeous, isn't it? I got it at cost, and I bought a black dress, too...' She began to talk clothes and Caro listened wryly, not sharing Amy's obsession with fashion. She didn't share Amy's other obsession, either: with men, who always broke her heart. Fortunately, her heart mended quickly and Amy went on to a new man, a new heartbreak. Caro was not that resilient or forgetful; she had had her heart broken once and that was enough. At least I don't make the same mistake over and over again, she thought, as she and Amy said goodbye. After Damian, I've taken care never to fall in love with anyone else.
'See you next Wednesday at the Portland Club House, and then it's my treat,' said Amy, poised for flight. 'I must rush. Thanks for the lunch. Bye.'
By next week, she'll be madly in love with someone new, Caro thought, but what does her l
ove mean when it's given and forgotten so easily? I've no intention of falling in love until I'm sure the guy is in love with mc, and means it.
She took the escalators down to check on the various floors, walking slowly around, her sharp, observant eyes moving like lightning, looking out for clever arrangements, new ideas, what was selling, what wasn't. She was in the jewellery department when a man bumped into her with some force. Caro almost fell over, stumbling back against a counter. When she recovered, she turned to make some terse comment, but the man had already vanished into the lift.
It was getting late now though, and she ought to get back for the committee meeting, so she headed for the lift herself, walking fast.
'Excuse me, madam,' a man said beside her, touching her arm. 'I would like a word, if you please.'
Caro gave him a brief glance. He was middle-aged, solidly built, with eyes like chisels.
'I'm sorry, I'm in a hurry,' she said impatiently, not wanting to waste time on a sales pitch from one of the Westbrooks staff. 'Whatever you're selling, I don't want it.' And she quickened her step.
'Oh, no, you don't!' growled the stranger, clamping a hand down, hard, on her shoulder.
Mulled, Caro said, 'Let go of me!' She tried to pull free, but that grip, though light, was unbreakable.