But facts were facts. Mrs. Massot had the largest shareholding and was now chairman of the board. And it was all to his advantage. Women—he could hardly keep them away from him. Sophie Massot, Montfort thought, would not be a problem. He sat down at his desk, took out a pen, and began to make notes on his proposals.

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

“Come on, babes.”

Polly stood there impatiently, tapping her foot. She was wearing jeans and those ridiculous Wellington boots that swallowed up what was, Tom reflected, really a very well-turned calf. These she had teamed with a boxy T-shirt that covered up all her shape, and under that were probably those greying Marks & Spencer undergarments she favoured, despite his occasional presents of sexy lingerie—La Perla and Agent Provocateur. She complained the lace was scratchy.

It annoyed him that Polly could be so inelegant and yet still look good. She had that very pale English skin, milky, and the bright blue eyes that always go so well with red hair. Several of his fellow undergraduates stared longingly at her as they walked past. Massot would like to knock their heads off. It was disrespectful; Polly was with him.

“I told you, chérie, I don’t have time today.”

“But you should make some. We don’t get weather like this every day, or hadn’t you noticed?”

Polly gestured to the sky with one of her aristocratic hands—long, delicate fingers, but the effect was ruined by the fact she invariably bit her nails. And never applied polish.

“I know.”

The sun was indeed blazing down from a deep blue sky, punctuated only by a few tiny white clouds, scattered across it like daisies.

“Might even turn out to be another hot summer. I fucking love global warming,” Polly sighed. She lifted her plastic bag. “I’ve got everything. Scotch eggs.”

“Disgusting,” Tom said. But he gazed at her fondly. She was a lot of fun.

“Baguette and pâté,” she added, ignoring him. “Strawberries. Bar of Dairy Milk. And a bottle of champagne.”

Despite himself he glanced at the champagne; it was an inferior brand.

“That stuff is horrible. All blended. The worst on the market.”

She coloured. “We don’t all own fucking vineyards, Tom. It was cheaper, okay? I get what I can afford.”

He wanted to reassure her.

“I told you that you don’t need to pay for anything, Polly. I’ll take care of it.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” She smiled. “Look, after the first two glasses you won’t give a toss about the quality, trust me.”

“I’d love to go on a picnic with you,” he said, wistfully. Actually, Tom couldn’t think of one thing he’d rather do. “But I’ve got a meeting this afternoon. I must prepare for it.”

She snorted. “You, prepare for a tutorial? That’s a new one.”