Free The Mermaid Garden by Santa Montefiore Page B

with some effort, though
    not before she had extracted a smile. She felt a blush creep up her chest and flourish on her face, and she forgot all about Joe and her sense of inadequacy. She could smell the sandalwood of the stranger’s cologne.
    She breathed it in, savoring the scent of foreign places. He was obvi-
    ously not English. Englishmen didn’t wear jeans so well, and they never bothered with such elaborately buckled belts. She looked down at his
    feet: brown suede loafers. She hadn’t seen a pair of those since she’d left London. The queue moved quickly and soon she was at the counter,
    giving her order. She stood aside to make room for the stranger as the
    girl placed the muffin and brownie into a bag and went off to make her
    tea and coffee.
    “Are both those cakes for you?” he asked.
    Clementine was startled. She hadn’t imagined he would talk to her.
    She tried to act coolly, but her heart danced noisily in her chest. “Are you suggesting I shouldn’t?”
    “Of course not. It’s important for a girl to eat well.” He was now
    grinning at her.
    “Are you going to have something naughty?”
    “If you put it like that, I think I’d better.”
    “Rude not to. Where are you from?”
    “Argentina.”
    “Argentina? The land of polo.”
    “How well you know it.”
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    She laughed, feeling foolish. “I don’t know it at all. I’ve been to the Cartier Polo Match, watched the Argentines slaughter the Brits, and
    seen Evita at the theater. That’s as much as I know.”
    “It’s a good start.”
    “You’ve come a long way.”
    “Not really. The world is getting smaller all the time.”
    The girl at the counter stood poised by the till. “Can I help you?”
    Clementine noticed how she perked up at the sight of him, too.
    “A chocolate brownie and an espresso.” He turned to Clementine.
    “As you say, it would be rude not to.”
    She laughed. “It really would. If you’re from Argentina, you should
    go to Devil’s and taste our scones with clotted cream and jam. They’re
    out of this world.”
    “Next time we meet, you can take me.”
    “Deal.” She sincerely wished for a next time.
    She paid for her order. He didn’t invite her to join him. Perhaps he
    wasn’t staying, either. “Well, so long, stranger.”
    “So long. Enjoy your naughty muffin.”
    “Not for me, actually. For my boss.”
    “Lucky boss.”
    “Lucky boss indeed. He certainly doesn’t deserve it.” She was left no
    alternative but to leave. The queue behind them looked on impatiently.

She tossed him a casual smile, as casual as she could muster when her
    mouth wanted to swallow her entire face with happiness, and left.
    Clementine hurried back to the office in a state of excitement.
    Throwing herself against the door with her bags, she fell in. “Oh my
    God!” she exclaimed to Sylvia, who was now rubbing oil into her cu-
    ticles.
    “You look better. What have you done? Got the present?”
    “A pink food mixer.”
    “Fabulous!”
    “I think so. I’ve got wrapping paper and a card.”
    “Let’s see?” Clementine placed the bag on Sylvia’s desk. “You’ll have
    to get them out, lovely, my nails are still tacky.”
    “I’ve just bumped into the most delicious man I’ve ever seen!”
    “More delicious than Joe?” Sylvia looked disappointed.
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    Santa Montefiore
    “Forget Joe, Sylvia. Joe’s not a runner.”
    “Shame, he’s just sent you round a bouquet of roses.” She nodded at
    Clementine’s desk.
    Clementine’s heart sank at the sight of ten plump roses in transpar-
    ent paper, tied with ribbon. “Oh Lord!”
    “He can’t help you.”
    “I can but ask.”
    “So, go on. Amuse me.”
    “This divine stranger from Argentina just sashayed into the Black
    Bean Coffee Shop and chatted me up.”
    “Are you serious? With all that makeup caked onto your