“So are you. Just in time for a glass of Chablis and some quiche and salad. I’ve made dinner.”
She ruffled his hair and followed the delicious smells coming from the kitchen, opened the oven door and was blasted with heat. Inside was a large mushroom quiche. “You made this?”
“Hmm.”
“Fibber. It looks suspiciously like it’s from Vincent.”
“Okay, busted. It survived the flight well, eh?”
They compared tans and news on Izzy and Brigitte as they setthe table and served up dinner. “So, how was the rest of your trip?” asked Laura. “Did you get much studying done?”
“Yep. Loads, in fact.” He smiled. “I think it picked up once Cherry left. Although we did seem to spend quite a bit of time Skyping.” He suddenly lit up as if he’d just realized something. “We never seem to run out of things to say to each other.”
He is completely in love with her,Laura thought, trying to keep her smile in place as her heart stuttered in dismay.
“That’s nice.”
He looked at her quizzically and she knew the response had been inadequate.
“She’s a great girl. . . .”
“But?” he prompted, eyes sharp.
“It’s just . . . you’ve only just met.”
“And?” he prompted again, and his tone had an edge of defensiveness this time.
Now was her chance. Should she say something? Dare she? How could she not?
“I’ve just noticed . . . she’s someone who . . . You’ve helped her quite a bit since you’ve been dating.” She felt herself begin to blush.God, this is a hideous insinuation.
“‘Helped her’?”
“Financially.”
His face seemed to stall in an expression of incredulity.
“Whoa, whoa, are you trying to tell me you think she’s some sort of . . .gold digger?”
The blush flooded her face.
“Seriously?”
“I’d just noticed one or two things.”
“Such as? Mum, she’s not asked me for athing.What was it? I paid for her flights, yes, but the clothes . . . Is that what this is about? They were abirthday present.If anything, she spent more on me when she bought the . . . my painting,” he added.
The awkwardness intensified with the unresolved, ugly specter of the slashed painting.
Laura held up her hands. “I’m sorry, but there’s something about her I just don’t trust.”
“Why? You don’t even know her, not really.”
What could she say? Confess to snooping around in their room and her amateur detective work at the office?
“I feel like I got to know her quite well . . . over the holiday,” she said lamely.
He looked at her and she tried to uphold her statement with a smile.
