The Wealthy Man's Waitress

CHAPTER TWO

‘SO, HOW did it go with the old man?’ His expression wary, blond hair tousled, chest bare and his jeans hung low on his youthful hips, Lawrence strolled into Emma’s living-room and dropped down onto the sofa. As he leant forward, his blue eyes were very intense as they flicked across Emma’s face. For a moment she didn’t know what to say. How was she going to tell him she had failed to get the help he needed when his gaze was so trusting and hopeful? It would be like kicking a dog when he was already down.

‘I take it you did get in to see him?’ His smile a little nervous, Lawrence helped himself to an apple from the cut-glass bowl on the coffee-table and took a bite. Momentarily surprised by his assumption that she’d actually got that far at least, Emma frowned as she looked at him. ‘Don’t you believe in wearing clothes? It’s November, not the middle of July!’

‘I’m OK.’ He shrugged his wide shoulders uncaringly. ‘I just had a shower. As soon as I heard you come back I just left everything and came downstairs.’

Hearing footsteps walk across the floor above, Emma swallowed down the unexpected hurt that suddenly cramped her throat as she glanced knowingly up at the ceiling. ‘Have you got a girl up there?’

For a moment the brilliant blue eyes clouded over. Throwing the half-eaten apple back into the bowl, Lawrence got to his feet and came to join her. ‘She means nothing, Em. You know how I’ve been lately. I just needed some comfort. Someone to hold.’ The unspoken censure was there in his eyes, Emma realised. He’d had to resort to someone who ‘meant nothing’ because Emma refused to go to bed with him. He slid his hands onto her shoulders, regret and concern competing for her understanding in his gaze.

Emma swallowed down her disappointment and hurt and tried to rally her spirits, despite feeling like an ant that had just been stamped on by an elephant. ‘I have feelings too, Lawrence. I tried to explain to you that I needed more time. You tell me you want us to be closer, yet you go to bed with someone else at the first opportunity? I really don’t understand.’

‘I’m sorry I hurt you, angel. Please, don’t be angry with me. I know it’s hard for you to understand but a man has needs. You must realise I wouldn’t be interested in any other girl at all if you would just allow yourself to be a little more intimate with me.’

Telling herself she was too damn forgiving for her own good, Emma wished she didn’t suddenly feel like crying…and she still hadn’t managed to give Lawrence the bad news yet. ‘Anyway, I did manage to see your father.’

‘I knew you would.’ His hand moved up from her shoulder to settle briefly at the side of her cheek. ‘So…how did it go?’

‘Not good, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh?’ Moving away from Emma, Lawrence strode back across the room to the sofa and stood in front of it with his arms folded across his bare chest.

‘I’m afraid he won’t help.’ Hating the fact she was forced to state things so baldly, Emma chewed down anxiously on her lip, fielding the hurt she already saw reflected in the dazzling blue irises and wishing there was some way she could eradicate it forever.

‘You explained everything to him? That I wanted to make a new start down in Cornwall? That I wouldn’t bother him again if he helps me out just this one last time?’

‘Lawrence, I did my best, I really did, but he was resolute. Nothing I said seemed to reach him.’

‘Then you clearly didn’t try hard enough!’ His lips twisting in a scowl, Lawrence glared at Emma as if she were solely responsible for the predicament he found himself in. As his words scorched into her brain, Emma stared back at him, feeling as if she’d just received a sudden, unexpected blow to the head.

‘What did you say?’ Nervously, she wove her hand through her shoulder-length hair then pulled it free again.

‘You know how desperate I am!’

That was it, Emma told herself soothingly. He was only angry with her because he felt so desperate. When he calmed down, everything would be right again between them. But beneath her own assurance another feeling was rising, one that resembled something very close to resentment. Many of her friends—and she herself—had come from far more difficult situations and not everyone had had the cushion of comfort to fall back on that Lawrence had had. Was he right to always expect his father to bail him out of trouble? When did the boy become an adult and start to look after himself?

Glancing at the tall, blond, handsome youth who graced her living-room, Emma experienced a sudden surge of shame that she was silently giving vent to some not so nice feelings about him. It was the ordeal she’d been through, she told herself. It was having Piers Redfield look at her as if he wanted to manoeuvre her up against a wall and take her there and then in his office, with the Lord Mayor’s procession weaving through the streets and his staff hanging out of the windows to watch it. Her body throbbed with shameful heat at the thought.

‘I’m really sorry that your father won’t help but maybe there’s another way? Between us we must be able to come up with something.’ Forever hopeful, Emma tried to smile consolingly but she could hardly bring herself to look Lawrence in the eye with the thoughts that were currently scorching her brain. Some friend she was.

‘Bastard!’ Without a thought for Emma’s furniture, Lawrence kicked the leg of the coffee-table and sent the glass bowl containing the fruit skidding along its polished surface.

‘Lawrence!’

‘I suppose he gave you a lecture on how irresponsible and selfish I was? How I don’t deserve help because I’m such a dismal failure? Then I suppose he told you how many jobs he’d got me interviews for, how many I didn’t turn up to or left after a few days? How I’m always coming up with crazy schemes that go nowhere instead of knuckling down to some ‘‘honest hard work’’?’

‘He didn’t run you down to me.’ Distressed by his anger, Emma crossed the room to go to him but he shrugged her off when she reached out to comfort him and glared at her instead.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ His eyes wild, he shook his head. ‘You’re supposed to be my friend. You know how desperate I’ve been. You may not mind living in this dump but I do mind! I’d do anything to get out of it…anything! Why couldn’t you have persuaded him to help me?’

‘Persuaded him?’ Her dark eyes huge, Emma stared back at Lawrence in stunned disbelief. ‘What do you mean, persuaded him?’

‘You’re a pretty girl, nice breasts, long legs, soft voice… It can’t have been beyond you to try and convince him, can it?’

She felt sick. The room seemed to lurch crazily as all her blood rushed to her head, and she remembered Piers asking her, ‘Are you my reward?’ Had he guessed right? Had Lawrence expected her to get intimate with his father so that he would help him out? Could her so-called friend really be that ruthless? The thought was so stunningly outrageous that Emma could hardly find words to express her disgust. ‘Get out,’ she said, her teeth gritted.

‘Yeah, well.’ Pushing his fingers defiantly through his dishevelled blond hair, Lawrence appeared unaffected by her distress. ‘I worry about you, you know, Emma? It’s unnatural not to be interested in sex. The only reason Vicky or Nicky, or whatever her name is, is upstairs in my bed is because you’re so damned frigid! Either that or you’re a lesbian and you haven’t told me.’

‘I think you’ve said quite enough for one day.’ Her back stiff, Emma walked to the already opened door and held it wide. Biting her lip to stop it from quivering, she watched, chilled, as Lawrence swept past her without another word then pounded up the linoleum-covered stairs to his flat. When he’d gone, she quietly closed her door and leaned back against it with her eyes shut tight.

‘You wouldn’t be the first misguided fool to fall for his dubious charm,’ his father had said, and at the time Emma had believed him to be judging his son completely unfairly. But this was the first time she’d really let him down, she realised. Usually when Lawrence asked a favour of her, she endeavoured to deliver it. Disappointment in her failure to come up with the goods this time must have soured his supposed affection for her—so much so that he couldn’t even pretend to be civil. Now she was left with the knowledge that at least his equally ruthless father had been expressing an honest belief when he’d suggested that Lawrence had sent Emma to use her charms to persuade him to cough up financially.

Her stomach churning, Emma pushed away from the door and glanced disconsolately at the clock on the mantel. She had just a couple of hours before she had to be at work and right now she needed a shower to scrub away the taint of the day, though she seriously doubted if she’d ever be able to forget the humiliating events of today. The way she was feeling it would be very easy to blame herself for being such a disappointment to both Redfields. She wasn’t sophisticated or clever enough to command genuine regard the way some more worldly women could and consequently she’d allowed both men to treat her with disrespect. Though she wasn’t entirely sure that gazing at someone as if they urgently needed to be alone with you in the most intimate way could really be construed as demonstrating disrespect… Remembering the almost overwhelming pull of attraction she had shockingly experienced when she’d looked back into Piers Redfield’s disturbingly blue gaze, Emma felt herself grow hot with shame. She had no business lusting after Lawrence’s father—however attractive or compelling he might be—and the sooner she put him out of her mind and got back to reality, the better.

Piers had dinner at his club, enjoyed a glass of his favourite French cognac with an old business associate, then got Miles, his driver, to take him home. But once home in the large five-bedroomed Victorian house on the outskirts of Hampstead Heath, he prowled the huge drawing-room then the impressively stocked library with little enthusiasm or interest, a restlessness in his blood that he could neither restrain nor deny. His mind all but drove him crazy with the memory of Emma Robards telling him that he didn’t deserve to be a father because he wouldn’t help Lawrence and had made a pass at her instead.

Her comment had touched him in a very raw place—an old wound made up of guilt and regret. He’d carefully erected layers of skin as tough as steel around it to stop it from hurting him. But as he recalled it now, it did hurt him. Lawrence might have made a hash of his life so far in terms of getting his act together, but was that really so deserving of Piers’s contempt? Was it the boy’s fault that his mother had tried to make up for the lack of his father’s input by spoiling him rotten and endeavouring to meet every whim and want with meticulous regularity to make up for Piers’s absence? Thereby creating an individual just about as selfish as he could be.

‘And was it my fault that I was away from home too much because I was trying to build a firm foundation for my family’s future? Did Naomi really believe I just did it all for myself?’ Piers stalked the floor of the library, his hands alternately deep in his pockets and raking frustratedly through his hair. Emma Robards had opened a can of worms, that was what she’d done. Who the hell did she think she was, stealing into his office uninvited, practically demanding that he finance Lawrence’s latest crazy business venture just because they were related by blood?

Recalling those bewitching honey-brown eyes of hers with no difficulty at all, along with the unexpectedly sensual touch of her skin when she had laid her hand across his, Piers silently conceded that he was both intrigued and more than a little attracted to his son’s girlfriend. Emma Robards had the kind of chutzpah he admired but she was surely on a lost cause if she was hoping to win Lawrence’s undying gratitude for what she’d dared. Piers knew his own son and it didn’t take much imagination to work out that when Emma had returned home empty-handed—with no promise of his help, either financial or otherwise—gratitude would be the last thing on Lawrence’s mind. He was like a child who’d received every Christmas present he’d ever dreamed of, but still expected there to be one more. No, if Piers wasn’t mistaken, the daring Miss Robards would have received nothing more than the raw edge of his son’s tongue for her troubles. He almost felt sorry for her. What was she doing with a loser like Lawrence anyway?

Piers swore harshly beneath his breath. It had become all too easy to berate his own flesh and blood. Still, he probably deserved it. Especially after this last little stunt, sending his girlfriend to do his dirty work. Well, this time Piers would pay him back and make him think twice about resorting to such a stunt again. He would help him one last time, he concluded, but in return he wouldn’t hesitate to seduce Emma Robards. He’d show his irresponsible son that when it came to matters of strategy, he’d better sharpen his game if he wanted to play with the big boys. As he warmed to the idea, he drove his hand impatiently through his hair one last time then stalked determinedly from the room. In the stunning entrance hall with its black and white tiles and crystal chandelier suspended from the high ceiling, Piers grabbed up his coat from the hall-stand and went out into the cold, rainy night to hail a cab.

‘Sorry, Liz. I don’t know what’s the matter with me this evening.’ As Emma stooped to pick up the pieces of broken glass from the kitchen floor, Liz Morrison—friend and co-owner with her husband, Adam, of the bistro known as The Avenue—dropped down to help her. Her smooth forehead wrinkled with concern when she noticed that the younger woman’s hands were trembling.

‘What’s wrong, my love? Has someone upset you? Those lads are a bit rowdy out there tonight but they’re celebrating a friend’s promotion. Did one of them say something to you?’

‘No, it wasn’t them. I’m just feeling a little on edge, that’s all. Don’t worry.’ Getting to her feet, Emma briskly deposited the broken glass into a nearby bin. ‘It’ll pass.’

‘Want to go home early? I can get Louise to stay a bit later to help out.’

‘Thanks, but I’ll be fine. Really.’

But even as she automatically recited the words, Emma knew she was nowhere near fine. Not after that horrible incident with Lawrence this evening, and the earlier more embarrassing one with his father. It hurt when illusions were destroyed and tonight she’d discovered that Lawrence Redfield wasn’t the friend that she’d thought him to be. He’d clearly only used her friendship to advance his own ends, and now all Emma wanted to do was curl up into a tight little ball and make the world go away for a very long time until she felt right again. Only she couldn’t do that. She had a life and a job to do, and Liz Morrison had been too good to her for Emma to let her down just because her feelings had been hurt. Smoothing down her neat black skirt then adjusting the matching velvet ribbon on her pony-tail, Emma forced a smile, picked up a tray of glasses to take out to the bar, and headed for the double doors that led into the restaurant.

Liz’s hand on her wrist took her by surprise.

‘You need a break. Everyone else has taken holidays except you. You haven’t even marked out dates on the calendar. I don’t flatter myself that work here is so compelling you can’t tear yourself away, so what’s up, Emma? You can talk to me, can’t you?’

Liz Morrison was like a surrogate mother as well as a friend. Her daughter, Fleur, had gone to school with Emma, and when Fleur departed to Paris to start her career as a very junior dress designer in one of the big fashion houses, Emma had become even more like a second daughter to Liz and Adam. Looking into her concerned, attractive face now, Emma lifted her shoulders and dropped them again.

‘I made a fool of myself, Liz, that’s all. I’ll get over it. And as far as holidays go—well, I just haven’t sorted anything out yet.’ Only that wasn’t strictly true either, Emma thought disconsolately. The plain fact of the matter was that she wasn’t in a financial position to take a break. Although she got paid holidays, Emma relied heavily on tips to boost her income, and with her grandmother’s operation coming up and all the improvements that needed to be made to her house if she was to return home there afterwards, she needed as much money as she could get. The local authority would only give her a grant for some very basic improvements—the rest, family were supposed to supply. And, as Emma was the only family Helen Robards now had contact with, the responsibility fell to her. Not that Emma minded—far from it. Her grandmother was the one person in all the world who loved her unconditionally and Emma would do anything in her power to bring a little more ease to her life.

‘Well, you need to make taking a holiday a priority. Even if all you do is stay at home and potter. You’re looking tired. You spend most of your time out of work caring for your gran. I know she’s been seriously ill but it isn’t right that you should be totally responsible for her care. I’m not a fool, Emma. I know she needs a lot of care and that it’s draining you, both physically and financially.’

It was impossible to prevent the wave of self-conscious heat that flooded her cheeks at Liz’s perceptive comment. She did feel drained. But what could she do about it when there was no one else to share the burden of her grandmother’s care?

‘I won’t pretend it’s not tough sometimes but she’s my only family, Liz. Yes, I’d love a holiday but right now it’s not an option. Not even remotely.’

Liz smiled in understanding. ‘I’m not getting on to you, Emma, love. I’m just concerned. Still worried about Gran’s operation?’

Emma nodded, yet couldn’t help smiling at the thought of her grandmother’s determination to get better. ‘She’s tough though, you know? She’ll be OK. And if it makes you feel any better I’ll book some time off in a fortnight. That’s a week before the op, and I can be with Gran and keep an eye on her before she goes into hospital.’

‘Well, if either of you needs anything—anything at all—you must let me know. Promise?’

‘Promise. But you’re too good to me, you know that?’

‘Someone’s got to look out for you, love. Now, you’d better go and help Lorenzo in the bar or he’ll be in here screaming for those glasses any second now!’

An hour later, Emma glanced up from stacking glasses behind the bar and froze. Staring back at her from the doorway where he had just come in from the cold, Piers Redfield’s burning blue gaze closed the distance between them as though they stood head to head. She almost dropped another glass in her bid to extricate herself from the intensity of his examination, glancing helplessly at the handsome Lorenzo as he stood by her side humming along to the music that was playing softly, but unable to find words to elucidate her distress. What on earth was he doing here? Had Lawrence sent him? Had Piers decided to press charges or something equally horrendous because Emma had had the audacity to inveigle her way into his private office?

Finally realising they had another customer and before Emma could find her voice, Lorenzo dashed out from behind the bar to greet the imposing-looking man in the damp trenchcoat, speaking to him enthusiastically in his drawling Italian accent as Emma looked on, aghast. Then, shaking Piers’s hand and taking his coat, he led him to a secluded table for two in one of the dimly lit recesses with their dark oak seating. He laughed at something Piers said as he bent his head briefly to light the lone white candle in the centre of the table. Emma’s stomach knotted with deep foreboding. She noted a couple of women at one of the nearby tables glance across the almost full restaurant at Piers. Bending their heads, they whispered something and giggled. It didn’t take a genius to guess what had just passed between them. Piers was easily the most attractive and dynamic-looking man in the room, and Emma didn’t suppose there were too many crowded restaurants where that wouldn’t be the case.

Taking a deep lungful of air, she busied herself with drying glasses until Lorenzo hung up Piers’s coat then returned to the bar.

‘Emma, can you take the man in the corner a menu, please?’

It wasn’t like her to be so slow on the uptake but then it wasn’t every night she had a good reason to hang back. Her nervous brown eyes glanced helplessly into Lorenzo’s deep black. ‘Can’t you do it? I’m—I’m busy with these glasses.’

The young Italian restaurant manager shook his head in clear disapproval. ‘First you break all my glasses then you refuse to serve a customer. What is wrong with you this evening, Emma?’

A fierce blush coloured her otherwise pale cheeks. ‘I’m not refusing to serve anybody, I’m just busy doing something else.’

Without a word, Lorenzo reached for something on the corner of the bar and dropped a leather-bound menu into her hands. ‘Enough of this nonsense! Take the man a menu and for the love of God look happy about it!’

Now she knew how those French aristocrats must have felt on their way to the guillotine. Her legs almost buckling beneath her, Emma took her time negotiating her way past tables, a smile fixed on her face that felt more like a mask. When she reached Piers’s table, she held out the menu and lost the smile altogether.