Wish For The Moon. Кэрол Мортимер

I will remember who it is you remind me of,’ he added softly, once again giving her that searching look.

      ‘Let’s hope that when you do remember, it is a pleasant memory,’ she drawled mockingly.

      He smiled, his teeth white and even against his bronzed skin. ‘I’m sure it must be,’ he said huskily.

      Elizabeth politely but firmly extricated her hand from within his grasp, knowing by the way his fingers tightened momentarily that he didn’t want to release her. She clasped her hands together in front of her. ‘We mustn’t keep you from your rehearsal any longer,’ she said pointedly.

      ‘No,’ he acknowledged ruefully, strolling around to the driver’s side of the car with long easy movements. ‘I’ll see you both again soon.’

      It sounded more like a threat than a politely made parting comment. But she knew her grandfather would want to accept this man’s invitation, whereas she didn’t believe it was necessary for them to meet again, for dinner tomorrow or anything else, now that they had politely done their duty.

      They stood at the top of the steps watching the car as it disappeared in the direction of the west lawn, her grandfather’s arm about her shoulders as they went back into the house.

      ‘You weren’t very polite to him, darling,’ her grandfather finally reproved, as she had known he would.

      ‘His approach wasn’t very original,’ she derided. ‘That “you remind me of someone” routine must be years old,’ she dismissed scathingly.

      ‘It used to work when I was a young man,’ he frowned. ‘OK, point taken,’ he smiled as she gave him a pointed look. ‘But it didn’t seem like an approach to me.’

      ‘Perhaps not,’ she shrugged. ‘But I didn’t like the way he kept staring at me through lunch.’

      Her grandfather smiled again. ‘He did seem rather taken with you, didn’t he?’

      ‘There’s no need to sound so smug,’ Elizabeth snapped. ‘Quinn Taylor is certainly not my type!’

      ‘Because he sings for a living?’ her grandfather frowned. ‘Darling, the man is an artist, not some hack who can’t pitch a note!’

      Elizabeth knew exactly who Quinn Taylor was, and what he was. The Lise Morrison part of her would never forget that he had taken to his bed the girlfriend of a man who had called him friend.

      Or that he had once broken her heart.