‘Un espresso, un café crème et une sélection de patisseries. Et puis, dire au garçon qu’il devrait nous laisser seul.’
Leaving their menus on the table, Jean-François nodded to Luke, said ‘Bon appetite, madame,’ to her, then flashed that knowing smile again and left.
‘What did you say to him?’ she asked, fervently wishing she hadn’t managed to daydream through five whole years of French in school.
‘I ordered an espresso for me, a coffee with cream for you and a selection of pastries for the both of us,’ he replied drily. ‘I assume you still like your coffee milky—and you’ll love the pastries here, they’re a speciality of the place, they have an amazing pastry chef.’
‘I ate on the train,’ she lied, just as drily, aggravated that he remembered how she liked her coffee—and suspicious of the pastry order. Was that why he’d suggested this place? Did he think he could charm her into offering him more money? ‘And even with my rudimentary French, I know what café crème is,’ she continued. ‘I meant what you said to him after that.’
He rested his forearms on the table, the smug almost-smile finally flatlining.
‘I told him to tell the waiter to leave us alone so we could have some privacy for this conversation.’ He stretched out his legs, bumping her knee again. She shifted back further, then wished she hadn’t when the half-smile returned.
‘Relax, Hal, I’m not planning to kidnap you. Yet.’
She pushed out a scoffing laugh. Determined to appear as cool and confident as he did, even if her ulcer burst. ‘We won’t need too much privacy. This is going to be a very short conversation.’
One dark brow arched. ‘I doubt that.’
‘Think again.’ She plucked the contract out of her briefcase and slapped it on the table, the way she’d rehearsed several times the night before. He didn’t even flinch, let alone jump the way she’d hoped. She crushed the prickle of disappointment.
‘I’m prepared to offer a generous sum to make this book go away,’ she launched into her spiel. ‘Even though we both know you haven’t actually signed a deal yet.’ Her spirits lifted at the crease on his forehead as he studied the wad of papers. ‘Lizzie says you’re a successful journalist, though.’ She put the emphasis on ‘says’ so he would think she doubted Lizzie’s conviction, then paused to let the implication also sink in that she had in no way followed his career trajectory. ‘She also seems to think you’re a competent enough writer to write a book of this nature. And my literary agent concurs that you ought to be able to command an advance given the subject matter. But as I’m not well-known in the US—’ yet ‘—because my show’s only been syndicated to public service broadcasters over there, she doubts a New York publisher will offer more than a low four-figure advance. Accounting for that, and the dollar exchange rate at the moment, I’m prepared to offer you twenty thousand in pounds sterling, in a lump sum payment, once you sign this contract.’ She tapped her nail on the contract for added effect. ‘A contract that, once signed, will rescind all your rights now and in the future to write a book that features, alludes to or in any way references me, our past association or either one of my two children in it. Whether in name or via the use of recognisable characterisation and/or pseudonyms.’
She had to rush the last bit of the speech because she was running out of breath. But, otherwise, the swell of pride was almost as huge as the rush of relief. She’d done it. She’d stuck to the script without wavering or prevaricating and without stumbling, once.
She couldn’t assess his reaction because his expression had gone completely blank as he stared at the paperwork, but she congratulated herself again when he brought his hand down to rest on top.
The silence stretched uncomfortably as he thumped his thumb on the pile of papers but didn’t pick up the contract to examine it more closely.
The waiter arrived to place their coffees and the pastries in front of them. The buttery scent of freshly baked filou accompanied the artistry of feather-light croissants and eclairs, delicate tarts decorated with exotic fruits and some miniature chocolate and cherry entremets.
‘Feel free to read it,’ she prompted, to cover the sound of her empty stomach rumbling.
For a split second she thought she saw something brittle flash across his face, but she dismissed the thought when he said lazily, ‘What makes you think the book’s about you?’
She opened her mouth to tell him she wasn’t an imbecile. But shut it again when she realised how neatly he had almost outmanoeuvred her. She would sound vain and self-important if she reiterated the point, even though they both knew she had to be the subject of the book. Because what else did he have to sell but intimate details of their life together? But she didn’t plan to get caught out that easily.
Luke as a boy had always had a scathing and vocal dislike of what he called ‘pop culture crap’ and a huge chip on his shoulder about people with money whom he decreed didn’t deserve it—which made her suspect he was likely to be less than impressed by her success as a celebrity chef. With hindsight, she also now realised that Luke’s prickly superiority as a teenager had probably come from the indignity of growing up on a run-down council estate in a ‘problem family’ while having to rely on benefit cheques, the local food bank and charity-shop clothing to survive. But she didn’t plan to give him another opportunity to lecture her on the subject of her ‘privileged upbringing’ just because her dad had once gone to grammar school.
‘I don’t care what your book’s about as long as myself and Lizzie and Aldo aren’t in it,’ she said, directing the conversation back where it needed to be. ‘In any shape or form. My private life is not for public consumption and neither is theirs.’
He plopped two sugars into his espresso. ‘So what you’re saying is, you want to be able to decide what I put into my book.’
‘Yes.’
He stirred the espresso with maddening patience.
‘And I’m prepared to pay a very generous sum for the privilege,’ she added.
He took a leisurely sip of his coffee, the dainty cup impossibly tiny cradled in his hand. ‘Then I guess my next question’s gotta be, what makes you think I want you to pay me for that privilege?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I don’t want your money,’ he said.
She blinked, the tiny spurt of hope comprehensively drowned out by total astonishment as what he seemed to be implying simply failed to compute. ‘So you’d be willing to keep us out of it without being paid?’
No way, that couldn’t be right. The man was a rat. He’d shown his true colours sixteen years ago. She had not misread this situation that much.
‘Not exactly,’ he replied.
Bingo. ‘I thought not,’ she said, pleased she hadn’t been wrong. Twenty grand was a small price to pay for the heady satisfaction of finally being right where he was concerned.
‘But money’s not what I’m after from you.’
‘Well, I’m afraid that’s all I’m offering.’ She had no idea where he was going with this, and she didn’t want to know. Luke’s cunning plans, his ridiculous schemes, his hidden agendas were not her problem any more. She’d gotten over caring what the heck was going on inside his head years ago.
‘All I want is a favour from you,’ he continued. ‘Then I’ll do you one in return and drop the book deal. Autobiography’s not really my thing anyway.’
‘What favour?’ The question spilled out, one split second before she remembered she didn’t give a toss about Luke’s stupid hidden agenda.
She realised her mistake when his eyes took on the intent gleam that had once excited her to the