Read Online Necessary as Blood by Deborah Crombie - Free Book Online Page A

although Melody wasn’t sure if the comment was directed towards the attentive waiter, who certainly bloody well knew, or their dinner guest. “Let’s make that four,” her father added, steamrolling over her protest, as usual. “I should think Quentin is game for a little adventure.”
    The Quentin in question was the latest victim of Melody’s father’s campaign to find her a suitable husband. A junior employee of her father’s, Quentin Frobisher was tall, sandy haired, freckled, and not actually bad looking in the very English way that Melody didn’t particularly fancy. Not that she would for a moment admit she found him even passable.
    She had met her parents and their guest just outside the Ivy, and on the short trip through the restaurant’s foyer, she had hissed at her father, “You said he was an ‘ordinary chap.’ No one named Quentin is an ordinary chap.”
    Now, she huddled back against the banquette, wishing she were anywhere else on earth. Why had she let her father bully her into this? And what if someone from work saw her?
    Not that any common or garden-variety coppers were likely to be found in one of London’s most famous and exclusive restaurants on a Saturday night. But although the Ivy reserved a good two-thirds of its bookings for “regulars,” it was not particularly expensive, and anyone with a bit of time and determination could theoretically get a table.
    She herself had been seduced by it tonight. Her parents had brought her here for special occasions since her teens, and she loved it—the distinctive diamonds of multicolored stained glass over thedoor, the streetlamp shining through the blue crescent moon, the paintings, the grand mural in the dining room, the crisp-starched white tablecloths. And most of all, the sense of the well-oiled machine ticking away above the unseen chaos of the kitchen below, creating a perfection she seldom experienced in her workaday life.
    That reminder was enough to snap her back to reality. She tugged at the décolleté of her dress and gave another nervous glance around the room. Work—at least her work—and this sort of play didn’t mix. God forbid she should run across some emaciated celeb wannabe snorting coke in the ladies’ loo and have to choose between duty and exposure. She shuddered. At least no one would have the nerve to use a camera in the sacred precincts of the Ivy—she was very careful not to be caught in photos with her father.
    He had picked the intermediate sitting, between the pre-theatre and post-theatre crush. Unusual for him, as he liked to see and be seen, but perhaps he’d thought it was the only way he would get her to accept the invitation. He was looking quite pleased with himself, in fact. Although it was against the Ivy’s policy to give favored clients special tables, tonight they had got a four top at the back of the room, perfectly positioned to observe the other diners.
    “Do sit still, darling, and stop picking at your dress,” her mother whispered. Her mum had bought the dress from a new designer she was patronizing in Knightsbridge, and her eye had been, as usual, sharp enough to guarantee a perfect fit. The dress was black, snug as a glove, with an off-the-shoulder plunging neckline that made Melody acutely uncomfortable. She’d always been self-conscious about her broad shoulders and rather generous bust.
    “Nonsense,” her mother had told her that afternoon when she’d dropped by Melody’s flat, bearing her gift in a scented, tissue-stuffed, beribboned bag. “You really must learn to maximize your assets, darling.” She zipped Melody into the dress, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Very fetching. And you do have legs. One would never know it with those dreadful off-the-rack trouser suits you wear.”
    Melody had a runner’s calves, a legacy of her public-school days and the jogs she still managed round Hyde Park when work allowed, but she thought the muscles just made her look