Take a Chance on Me. Fiona Harper

down to such an all-or-nothing choice? If only there was another way to reach him. She picked the card up from where she had flung it on the passenger seat.

      Of course! Talk about missing the obvious!

      She had been so focused on the telephone number on the back of the card she hadn’t even thought about turning it over to find his business address. She could wait a couple of days and phone him at work. That wouldn’t be too forward.

      She flipped the card over and ran her eyes over the classic black font. An accountant. She liked accountants. They were stable, sensible, and nothing like the kind of men she’d learned to shy away from—musicians, actors, tortured artists.

      Jake was looking better and better. He was smart and good-looking, and he must be clever. And he might, just might, be the kind of guy a girl could hope to settle down with.

      Then she noticed the name along the bottom and almost dropped the card in shock. Charles Jacobs!

       Charles?

      He’d told her his name was Jake!

      She was about to stub the offending card into the ashtray when she stopped. Jake could be a nickname. After all, she wasn’t exactly using her given name at the moment. She’d started abbreviating it to Serena. It sounded a lot less flower-child and a lot more … well, normal, than Serendipity. She couldn’t blame Jake if he wanted to liven up a stuffy name like Charles.

      She looked at the card again and smiled.

      Well, well. Charles Jacobs.

      Lunch tomorrow was going to be fun.

       CHAPTER TWO

      JAKE walked into Maison Blanc ten minutes early. Being there first gave him the edge. When Serena arrived he’d be calmly seated at one of the little square tables with its crisp linen tablecloth. He’d make sure he had a good view of the entrance, and scrutinise every female who glided through glass door.

      Maison Blanc was his kind of place. The décor was white and clean, full of straight lines. No fuss. No frills. The best feature by far was that he knew how big the bathroom window was. He’d fit through it, no problem.

      He walked past the bar into the main part of the restaurant and scanned the entire room from left to right—then did a double take.

      It was her!

      The mystery woman. Here. Now.

      He very nearly swore.

      The woman he’d spent most of last night trying to forget, while he punched his pillow and ordered himself to sleep, was sitting at a table in the centre of the room, sipping a drink.

      Suddenly he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

      She looked stunning. Her silky brown hair was swept up into a braided ponytail. Her large, almond-shaped eyes were accentuated with smoky make-up and she wore a soft moss-green cardigan open at the throat. He swallowed. Never had a cardigan looked so sexy.

      She was warm and vibrant. A perfect contrast to the sterile surroundings. And something about her seemed indefinably exotic. He wondered if she had gypsy blood coursing through her veins.

      She’d started to turn her head in his direction, so he dived behind a pillar and stayed there for a few breathless seconds. Then, when he was sure she wasn’t looking, he slunk over to the bar and ordered something. He sat there, hunched over his glass, hoping to heaven she hadn’t noticed him. But that didn’t seem possible. He was sure every molecule in his body was screaming Look at me and waving its arms in her direction.

      He risked another glance.

      She was looking at the menu. He was safe, for now.

      An enigmatic smile curled her lips, as if she were remembering a secret joke. In fact, it looked very much as if she were trying not to laugh.

      His fingers traced the rim of his tumbler, but it stayed on the bar as he let his mind wander.

      Last night, as they’d driven through the crowded London streets, he’d prayed that every traffic light would stay red, just to keep them locked in the private world of her car a few seconds longer. He’d been fascinated by her movements as she drove, hadn’t been able to stop watching the little silver bracelet that danced on her wrist as she moved her hand from steering wheel to gearstick and back. Everything she did was fluid and graceful.

      He’d even admired the cool way she’d pulled away and left him gaping in the street. It served him right for his lack of finesse. He’d been too sure she was going to call him. Minutes after her departure he’d been pacing round his flat, scorning himself for being so smug. He’d tried desperately to remember if he had any business contacts who could trace the owner of the blue Porsche.

      But it looked as if he didn’t need to worry about that. She was here. In fact, he didn’t need to worry about anything—except, of course, that she would have a ring-side seat to his blind date with Serena.

      Serena! He’d almost forgotten about her.

      He looked at his watch. Four minutes to go. Time to pull himself together. He couldn’t let her find him sitting at the bar all a-jitter. Perhaps the situation could be salvaged by a bit of quick thinking.

      He summoned a waiter and asked to be shown to his table. With any luck he’d be seated in the corner, facing the other direction. Maison Blanc was large, and there were plenty of square white pillars to hide behind.

      His step faltered as the waiter led him not to the far corner, but straight towards his mystery woman. Rats! He was going to have to walk right past her table. There was nothing for it but to ooze charm and hope the matter of a lunch-date with another woman could be swept aside once he’d claimed her promise of dinner another time.

      However, his best, knock-her-socks-off smile never made it past the planning stage—mainly because the waiter had stopped at the table and pulled out the chair opposite her.

      He just stood and stared.

      The waiter fidgeted and she waved him away. Then she smiled at Jake. He wanted to crawl under the table and hide.

      ‘Good afternoon, Mr Jacobs. I’m pleased you could make it—this time.’

      ‘But you’re … You can’t be …’

      ‘I’m Serena. Pleased to meet you, Charles—or is it Jake?’

      He swallowed.

      She couldn’t be Serena—her teeth were far too lovely.

      She cocked her head on one side, waiting. Reading his mind, as it turned out.

      ‘I wore my hair this way just for you,’ she said, and turned her head so the ponytail swished towards him. Then she leant forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Just so you could tell which end of the horse was which.’

      Something inside him snapped to attention. She knew! She’d been ready and waiting for him, and he’d walked straight in to her little trap.

      ‘Touché,’ he said, his voice unusually croaky.

      She was really enjoying this. Her eyes were bright and smiling, but without a hint of malice. She wasn’t angry, just teasing him, asking him to share the joke.

      He held his hands up in surrender. ‘Okay, you got me. When did you know?’

      She took a sip of her drink.

      ‘Oh, not until after you stood me up. I found your business card in my pocket. An amazing coincidence, don’t you think?