Julia James - Diamonds are for Deception - The Carlotta Diamond / The Texan's Diamond Bride / From Dirt to Diamonds

‘You know perfectly well that by Tuesday you’ll be bored to tears,’ Charlotte pointed out with a smile.

Sojo grinned. ‘How well you know me. So maybe I’ll do a bit of sketching. The old man who lives across the road has an interesting face. See ya!’

When the other girl had hurried off, Charlotte cleared away and washed the breakfast dishes. Then, dressed in a grey skirt and top, her hair in a neat chignon, went down the back stairs to the shop.

One side was taken up by rows of shelves. On the other, between book-lined walls, there were several comfortable armchairs interspersed with low tables.

A hotplate, cups and all the necessary paraphernalia for ‘help yourself’ coffee were on a nearby trolley.

Providing free coffee for customers had proved a great success. Browsers, who in the past would have walked out empty-handed, now frequently stayed to drink and read, and ended up buying.

Having unlocked the shop door, she put two glass jugs of coffee on to heat, and brought fresh milk from the small fridge in her storeroom-cum-office.

The old-fashioned bell jangled discordantly and an elderly man came in and headed for New Fiction. He was followed by two women, then a moment later by a young man she guessed was a student, who made for the second-hand section.

Fridays were quite often busy, and this looked like being busier than usual. As well as needing to update the computer files and chase up some special orders, there was still yesterday’s delivery of new stock to be unpacked.

Margaret, who normally dealt with such tasks, was on holiday until the following day. A retired librarian, she had proved to be a godsend, and during the last week Charlotte had missed her help.

But it would be as well to keep busy, she told herself firmly. It would leave little time for too much thinking or repining.

Simon Farringdon paused outside the double-fronted shop that in gold lettering above the old bow-windows proudly bore the legend:

Charlotte Christie

New Books Old Books Rare Books and First Editions

Then with the air of someone going into battle, he pushed open the door and went inside.

Charlotte was in the storeroom when the doorbell jangled again. It was followed by the tinkle of the small brass bell that sat on the counter alongside a card reading, Please Ring For Attention .

She hurried out to find a tall, broad-shouldered man, with thick fair hair and a lean, aristocratic face, waiting.

He was somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, she guessed, and extremely well dressed, with a quiet air of authority and self-confidence.

Level brows, several shades darker than his hair, high cheekbones, a strong, bony nose and a mouth that was at once austere and sensual made him one of the most fascinating men she had ever seen.

Becoming aware that she was doing what Sojo would have described as gawping at him, she pulled herself together and said with a smile, ‘Good morning.’

The thickly lashed eyes that met hers were greeny-gold, like the surface of the sea with the sun on it.

Eyes you could drown in.

‘Miss Christie?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good morning. My name’s Simon Farringdon…’ His voice was clear and low-pitched. An attractive voice.

‘How can I help you, Mr Farringdon?’ she asked pleasantly.

‘I got in touch with you recently, on my grandfather’s behalf, concerning a set of rather obscure books, Par le Fer et la Flamme , by the eighteenth-century writer Claude Bayeaux…’

‘Of course… I’m so sorry, I’m afraid for a moment your name didn’t register. Your grandfather must be Sir Nigel Bell-Farringdon?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m pleased to say I’ve managed to find the volumes he wants.’

‘Excellent! He’ll be delighted.’

His white smile sent little shivers chasing up and down her spine.

‘I’m hoping they’ll be delivered later this morning. But if not, they’ll certainly—’

‘Excuse me,’ a shrill, impatient voice broke in, ‘but do you have a copy of The Old Fig Tree …?’

Dragging her gaze away from Simon Farringdon, Charlotte found there were several people waiting.

‘It’s by Rachel Radford,’ the woman went on.

‘If you just give me a minute, I’ll check,’ Charlotte assured her politely.

‘I haven’t got a lot of time.’

Simon Farringdon said quickly, ‘As you’re obviously up to the neck, and I’d like a chance to discuss the books with you, perhaps you’ll have lunch with me?’

‘I’m afraid my assistant is on holiday until tomorrow, so I won’t be able to leave the shop,’ Charlotte said regretfully.

‘In that case, dinner tonight. If you give me your address I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.’

It wasn’t until later that she found herself wondering at his calm certainty, how sure of himself he’d been.

Now, feeling a strange surge of excitement, she found herself saying, ‘I live above the shop.’

‘Seven-thirty, then.’ He sketched a brief salute and was gone.

The woman looked pointedly at her watch.

‘I’m sorry,’ Charlotte apologised. ‘I’ll only be a moment or two.’

For the remainder of the day she was on the go constantly, managing only a snatched sandwich and a cup of coffee at noon.

Though there was no time for actually thinking , Simon Farringdon stayed in her consciousness like a burr clung to clothing.

It was almost a quarter to seven before the last customer departed and she was able to lock the door. Dog-tired, both mentally and physically, she climbed the stairs back to the flat to shower and change.

Normally, feeling as she did, she would have looked forward to a quiet night by the fire, but now she felt a fresh surge of excitement and anticipation at the thought of dining with Simon Farringdon.

Disconcerted by his effect on her, she told herself crossly not to be a fool. This wasn’t a date, it was simply a business dinner.

But even that stern reminder failed to dim her sense of expectancy.

Wondering where he was likely to take her, she was trying to decide between a midnight-blue dinner dress and a simple black sheath, when, catching sight of the dress she had worn the previous evening, she realised with a little shock of surprise that she hadn’t given Rudy a single thought.

Simon Farringdon’s attractive face and those extraordinary green-gold eyes had driven everything else from her mind.

How could she have believed herself on the verge of falling in love with one man, and within twenty-four hours be obsessed by thoughts of another? Especially a man she had met only briefly.

It wasn’t like her at all.

Finally deciding on the black sheath, she dressed and—unusually for her, having very little personal vanity—made up her face with care.

Then, hoping for a businesslike look, she re-coiled her cloud of dark hair into a chignon. A style that, had she known it, emphasised her long neck and pure bone structure and gave her an appealing air of fragility in spite of her height.

She had just slipped into her coat and picked up her bag when the doorbell rang. Feeling ridiculously nervous, like a girl on her first date, she took a quick glance out of the window. A sleek silver car was standing by the kerb.

As she hurried down the stairs to open the door it occurred to her that, having magnified his image in her mind into something special, seeing him again she could well be disappointed.

She wasn’t. If anything the impact was stronger.

Dressed in a well-cut dinner jacket, his tanned face smoothly shaven, the light from the street lamp gilding his corn-coloured hair, he would have been almost any woman’s dream escort.