A Night on the Orient Express Read Online Free Page A

herself as she stepped on countless toes.
    Outside, the damp air clamped itself around her. She was far more unsettled than she should have been. It wasn’t because of the painting itself. She couldn’t help feeling that there had been something personal about the counter-bidding. That man hadn’t wanted her to have it. The set of his shoulders had spoken volumes. He had ensured the painting was never going to be hers.
    She decided to go and have something to eat in the nearby town, where she remembered there was a very nice hotel. She could lick her wounds over lunch, then take a leisurely drive home and try and forget the incident. It was only a painting, after all.
    At the hotel, she shook out her rain-sodden mac, hung it in the cloakroom and checked her appearance in the mirror. She saw wide green eyes with pretty eyebrows, and a hairdo that yesterday had been sleek and bouffant but was now beyond hope. She smoothed down her dress, adjusted her stockings, and made her way into the dining room.
    She took a table by the window that looked out onto the high street. The rain had stopped, and a persistent sun was trying to nudge its way through the cloud. She ordered her lunch and made a list of things she needed to do: send the boys a bulging bag of mint humbugs, their favourite sweets, then write them a long letter each to go with them. She had a couple of dresses she wanted re-worked by the local dressmaker: dresses she liked but that needed an update. And she wanted to send an invitation to their newest neighbours for supper. She and William were very sociable, and Adele jotted down the names of two other couples she thought the newcomers might enjoy meeting. In fact, maybe she would make it a cocktail party – that way the newcomers could meet as many people as possible in one go. Gradually her pique at the morning’s outcome faded.
    She looked up as the waitress arrived to bring her whisky and soda: she had needed something to warm her, as getting so damp had chilled her to the bone. But it wasn’t the waitress.
    It was the victor. The spoils were under his arm. The painting was wrapped in brown paper but she knew that was what it was. He pulled out the chair opposite her without asking and sat down. His face was impassive as he looked at her.
    ‘You bid for the only painting worth buying in that room.’
    Adele stopped writing her list and put down her pen. She raised one eyebrow to accompany her smile. She might have seemed the picture of cool, but inside she felt as if she were melting, bubbling, fizzing, like a pan of sugar as it caramelises.
    ‘I know,’ she replied. She wasn’t going to give anything away. Largely because there was nothing for her to give away. She had no idea what the game was, what the rules were, or what she should do next.
    He put the painting down on the table in front of her.
    ‘I’d like you to have it,’ he told her.
    Her cool wavered. She hadn’t anticipated this. She’d expected some sort of inquisition as to what she knew about the painting’s provenance. A rather nervous laugh escaped her, and she hated the sound it made. It betrayed her discomfort.
    ‘Why?’ was all she managed in reply, trying to keep her voice low and steady.
    He shrugged. Then grinned. ‘You deserve it more than I do. I should have let you have it right from the start.’ He leaned forwards suddenly and she got a hint of his cologne. It was exactly as she had imagined.
    ‘What will you do with it? he asked, his expression fierce.
    She tried to look composed, to belie the caramel that was sliding around inside her, sweet and dark.
    ‘I’ve a place in my morning room. I should like to look at it while I write my letters. To my boys. I have two boys. Twins . . .’
    It seemed important to tell him that. But then she realised she’d gone from mysteriously monosyllabic to blithering, and so was probably in no danger. He just nodded, then looked at her again.
    ‘Do you mind if I join you for