Bad Influence. SUSANNE MCCARTHY

Miss Geldard,’ Maurice greeted her, opening the rear door.

      ‘Good morning, Maurice. What’s the traffic like?’

      ‘Not too bad, miss. Shouldn’t take us more than ten or fifteen minutes.’

      ‘Thank you, Maurice.’ She glanced at the slim gold watch on her wrist as she settled on the smooth Connolly hide rear seat and fastened her seat belt. She would be a little early; good—that suited her. She would have time to settle herself and be in control before her guest arrived.

      As Maurice eased the car up the ramp and out into the May sunshine she glanced at the file on the seat beside her. She was meeting a Mr Watson, the financial director, probably a grey man, full of figures, she speculated wryly—what a waste of a sunny afternoon. Around the Tower of London the tourists were enjoying the early taste of summer, sitting on the grassy bank beneath the high white wall, licking melting ice-cream cones—and she had to have lunch with some boring accountant.

      Laughing at herself, she shook her head. What was wrong with her lately? It wasn’t like her to be discontented with her lot—she knew that she was very privileged. It was just…sometimes she envied people whose lives were a little simpler. But then they probably envied her, she reminded herself crisply—gliding by in her gleaming Rolls, bound for lunch at one of London’s most exclusive eatinghouses.

      Le Périgourdin was a charming little restaurant, in a quiet street close to Covent Garden. By night it was a popular dining place for theatregoers, but by day it was also a favourite spot for business lunchers like herself. As Maurice dropped her at the door she reminded herself of another advantage of the privileges she enjoyed—she didn’t have to face the impossible task of finding a parking space.

      The head waiter knew her well, and came at once to greet her as she stepped through the door. The atmosphere was Provençal, with whitewashed walls, dark rustic beams and rush matting on the floor. At the back was a large whitewalled conservatory, massed with ferns and ivies, opening onto a tiny patio where in summer the most favoured diners could always expect a seat.

      It was there that Henri led her, settling her at a corner table with many compliments that made her laugh. ‘Henri, you’re impossible! You’re making me blush.’

      ‘But you look so beautiful when you blush,’ he declared broadly.

      ‘Henri, I have a very dull lunch with a very dull accountant, and I have to concentrate,’ she pleaded.

      ‘Mai non!’ he protested. ‘It is not right that so beautiful a lady should fill her mind always with business, business, business on such a lovely day! It is a day for strolling barefoot in the park, hand in hand with your lover, n’estce pas?’

      She shook her head, still laughing—and then froze as a tall, familiar figure appeared in the doorway. He was casually dressed in close-fitting denim jeans and a white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled back over strong, sunbronzed forearms. The collar was unfastened at the throat and his loose blond hair was catching the sun; as he lounged towards her she felt her mouth go suddenly dry.

      ‘Hello there, Blondie,’ he greeted her lazily, hooking out a chair and sitting down.