A Secret Rebellion. Anne Mather

she know who you are? Have you told her?’

      ‘She knows I am a man who has offered to buy her a meal.’ Alex was dismissive. ‘That’s enough.’

      ‘But if she knows—–’

      ‘She doesn’t.’

      ‘How can you be sure?’

      ‘I am not offering her marriage, Nico.’ Alex sighed. ‘Do not concern yourself with my morals. You are too young to give advice to someone old enough to be your father!’

      ‘Hardly that.’ Nick was indignant.

      ‘Oh, I think so,’ responded Alex lazily. ‘I was a very mature teenager.’ He cuffed his nephew on the shoulder. ‘Enjoy yourself, Nico. With God’s grace I should see you in the morning.’

      Elizabeth was waiting for him in the foyer. She had put on a dark green raincoat that almost reached her ankles, and knee-length boots that disappeared beneath the hem. She was certainly prepared for the weather, he reflected. Only her silvery head was uncovered.

      She ran her fingers through her hair as he came towards her. It occurred to him that it was a faintly nervous gesture. And why not? he asked himself, zipping up his jacket. She knew even less about him than he did about her.

      ‘Did you find Christina?’ he asked, leaning past her to open the door, and for a moment her expression was blank.

      Then, ‘Chris? Oh—yes.’ He stood back and she hurried into the hall outside. ‘Mmm, it’s chilly. Are you sure you’ll be warm enough without an overcoat?’

      Alex closed the door behind them, and pulled a wry face. As he went everywhere by car, he seldom considered the weather. But it was possible she didn’t have a car. That she used the bus or the Underground. And his appearance had evidently not led her to believe he was particularly affluent.

      He frowned, as the realisation that she would soon know quite a lot more about him surfaced. It had been easy enough maintaining his anonymity in Nick’s girlfriend’s apartment. At least half the men present had been wearing jeans and casual jackets. But how many of them had come here in a year-old Ferrari?

      As they went down the stairs and out into the chill of a March evening, Alex examined his alternatives. He could pretend he had had too much to drink and suggest they hail a cab. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find a cruising taxi on the Embankment, and Christina’s apartment was only a stone’s throw from there. Indeed, Alex had been relieved to find her address was in a reasonably respectable part of the city. There were areas of London where he’d have had some hesitation at leaving his car unattended.

      Or, he could suggest they walk along the Strand, where they were bound to find a suitable restaurant. In fact, he knew of an Italian establishment just off William Street, where they served the juiciest pizzas he had ever tasted.

      Or, and it was probably the most sensible, whatever his misgivings, he could collect his car, and drive to a decent hotel that provided valet parking. He could always pretend he was looking after the car for a friend—if indeed she knew anything about Italian sports cars.

      ‘My car’s over here.’

      For a moment, he thought he had said the words, but almost immediately he realised he hadn’t. Elizabeth was indicating a dark blue Peugeot, parked precisely in front of a dark green Ferrari, and Alex allowed his breath to escape an a rueful sigh. Evidently, she had chosen to take charge of their transportation, and, while it solved his problem, he felt a fleeting sense of regret at having the decision taken out of his hands.

      She unlocked the car as he walked round to the passenger side. He chose to walk round the back of the car, running his fingers regretfully over the Ferrari’s grille. Whatever happened to male domination? he wondered drily. Still, at least it would save him the trouble of taking her home afterwards.

      The passenger seat was too far forward, and his knees nudged the dashboard. ‘Make yourself comfortable. That seat’s seldom used,’ she advised him easily. Then, looking through her rear-view mirror, ‘Goodness, why do people park so close to the boot? I’ve hardly got enough room to get out of here.’

      Alex deliberately refrained from glancing over his shoulder. He knew exactly how close the Ferrari was. ‘Shortage of space, I guess,’ he volunteered lightly, and she muttered something about power-steering as she manoeuvred out into the traffic.

      It was cold in the car, and the windows were misted with their breath, but she seemed to know where she was going. Alex wondered if she was going to ask him where they ought to park, but then decided she probably knew the city better than he did. He was all right in the well-lit streets and main thoroughfares, but when it came to negotiating its one-way system he was soon in trouble.

      The heater began working as they drove along the Embankment, and the windows started to clear. It meant he had more light to see the delicate curve of her profile, and the determined way she held her tongue between her teeth when she was concentrating. He still couldn’t get over the fact that he had actually invited her to have dinner with him. Nick was right. It wasn’t like him. Dear God, what kind of a woman was she, to leave the party with a man she had only just met?

      He was so busy thinking about his reasons, and hers, that he was paying little attention to their surroundings. He had assumed she knew a short cut to the West End. He knew, because he had done it, that it was possible to run up one of these streets into Whitehall, or Piccadilly. He had expected her to do that. But he suddenly realised they were crossing the river, and that was not the way to reach their destination.

      Alarm flickered along his veins, but it was only a momentary thing. He knew he was perfectly capable of overpowering her, any time he chose, and that if this was some crazy attempt at kidnapping she had chosen the wrong man. But what if she had accomplices? What if when she stopped there were a couple of hoodlums waiting for him? He ought to do something now, before he lost the initiative.

      But, before he could marshal any defence, Elizabeth braked, and turned the car into a narrow street of tall Victorian houses. ‘Nearly there,’ she said, turning and giving him a winsome smile, and he had the uneasy suspicion that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

      ‘Nearly where?’ he responded, his tone much less cordial than hers, and she tucked her lower lip between her teeth.

      ‘My apartment,’ she replied, braking again, as she swung the Peugeot over to the kerb. There was just room for her to squeeze the little saloon between a dust-smeared Renault and an ancient convertible. ‘I thought I’d cook you supper. Do you mind?’

      Alex stared at her. ‘You!’

      ‘Hmm, me,’ she agreed, putting the car into neutral, and turning off the engine. ‘Believe it or not, but I can cook. Nothing fancy, you understand, but good wholesome food.’

      Alex didn’t know whether to laugh or give her a piece of his mind. It was his own fault, of course. If he hadn’t been so ambivalent about revealing that he owned a Ferrari, he’d have been in control. As it was, she had taken events into her own hands, and he could either like it or do the other thing.

      He shook his head. He could always call a cab, he supposed. But that would definitely seem ungracious. And, after all, it didn’t really matter where they ate. If she was prepared to invite a stranger into her home, why should he grumble?

      ‘Are you serious?’ he asked, putting his hand on the door-handle, and she nodded.

      ‘Of course.’ She licked lips that suddenly looked a little uncertain. ‘You’re not a rapist or anything, are you?’

      Alex grimaced. ‘Would I tell you, if I were?’

      Elizabeth bit her lip. ‘I suppose not.’

      ‘Well, I’m not,’ said Alex shortly, thrusting open his door. ‘Come on. It’s too cold to sit here discussing my sexual habits.’ He grinned. ‘We can do that much more comfortably inside, hmm?’

      Elizabeth got out, but she still