He was suddenly full of anger but it was directed at himself. She'd tried to warn him and he'd ridden roughshod over her.

“Come on,” he said, taking her arm gently. “This place doesn't suit our requirements. We'll find somewhere better, that does.”

That made the doorman swell like a turkey.

Dottie walked along the street in silence. Randolph was about to say something comforting when she began to laugh. “His face!”

“It was worth seeing,” he admitted. He was thinking of some women he knew who would have said, “I told you so,” and sulked until they thought he'd been punished enough.

Being offended was the last thing on Dottie's mind. She was in seventh heaven, enjoying the first fun outing she'd had in years. She recalled the last time she'd been in London's glamorous West End, as a child, when Grandad had brought her to see Santa Claus in one of the stores.

This felt much the same. The way her companion had whisked her away and brought her to this glittering street gave him much in common with Santa. Of course he was young for the part, and far too handsome, but she clung to the analogy because it left her free to admire him without feeling guilty about Mike.

They found somewhere a little farther along, different from The Majestic in every way except for its prices, which were even higher. This was an emporium of nouvelle cuisine, bright, modern, chic, sexy.

“All right for us to come in?” Randolph asked the man in jeans and shirt leaning against the door.

“You got the bread, man?” He indicated the exorbitant prices.

“He's got the bread,” Dottie said, seeing Randolph's baffled expression.

“Bread?” he asked as they made their way to the table.

“Money.” A horrid thought struck her. “You have got the bread, haven't you?”