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I know you do, she thought. She had one last try. ‘Mr Masterton, let me recommend you the names of some other accountancy firms.’
He leaned towards her, so that their faces were mere inches away from each other. ‘But I want this accountancy firm, Mrs Carson. And, more importantly—I want you. I don’t care if you don’t like me—for whatever reason. Your hang-ups about men are of no concern to me. I’m asking you to keep my books, not marry me.’
Elizabeth blanched at the unwitting irony of his words.
His eyes were piercing her with that blue-green light. ‘I have legal contacts and friends in England who have used you and been extremely pleased with the work you’ve put in. What they failed to mention was that you seem to have some problem with communication skills. Not that that matters—an accountant needs to be good with figures, not words.’ The slanting eyes narrowed still further. ‘What I do find intriguing, though, is your obvious reluctance to have my account. Tell me, is Paul Meredith aware that one of his senior accountants does her best to turn away lucrative offers of work?’
She heard the underlying threat spoken with silky menace, and it drew her up short, so that she started as she realised that she was in danger of jeopardising the career she had worked so hard for. Here was a man used to getting what he wanted, after all—and she suddenly recognised that a man like this, to whom everything in life had come so easily, would look on her reluctance to be hired by him as some kind of challenge. Why not just surrender gracefully to the inevitable? She looked at him steadily. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You, as the client, obviously know best, and I shall of course endeavour to do my best for you.’
‘Oh, for sure,’ he agreed softly, and then his eyes narrowed in intense concentration, just for a second, as if something was puzzling him. Elizabeth held her breath, certain again that he was about to remember her, but the moment passed.
She cleared her throat, pulling a portfolio towards her, and, picking up her fountain pen with a hand which was, amazingly, quite steady, she looked up at him expectantly.
‘Mr Masterton——’
‘Rick.’
She wondered briefly why he now used the American diminutive of his Italian name before shaking her head. ‘That may be the American way, but I’m afraid it’s not ours. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to keep things on a formal footing.’
But he obviously did mind, because as he looked at her, that perfect mouth twisted with derision. ‘God, but you’re uptight,’ he observed.
Pen poised, she looked at him as politely as if he had not just insulted her. ‘Shall we get on?’ she enquired frostily, and she saw him give a terse if somewhat reluctant nod. ‘Now then, about your business. What kind of business do you intend setting up?’
‘Why, a law firm, of course,’ he stated. ‘What else?’
‘But you qualified in the States. And as an American barrister——’
‘Attorney,’ he corrected.
‘Attorney, then. Surely you aren’t allowed to practise over here without taking extra exams?’
‘I’m not planning to. I’m leaving that to some very able English colleagues. I’m just here to set it all up. As soon as the chambers are established, then I’m back off to the States.’
She couldn’t keep the relief from her voice. ‘That means that you’re only here temporarily?’
His mouth twisted. ‘Yes, Mrs Carson. A few months at most.’
Thank God. ‘And do you intend for your law firm to be general—I mean tackling company law, fraud, divorce ...?’
He gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head as if acknowledging that now—at least—she was beginning to speak some sense! ‘Oh, no, Mrs Carson. Like you, I have a specialty.’
She got the strangest feeling of foreboding. ‘Which is?’
‘In America we call it “palimony”. I specialise in establishing the nature of common-law relationships, and negotiating a corresponding financial settlement. That’s one thing I do. My main interest, though, lies in the welfare of children.’
Some protective instinct deep within her stirred, powerful enough to keep her face poker blank. ‘Children?’ she echoed.
‘Yes, indeed. You see—I specialise in child custody cases.’
With an effort, Elizabeth only just prevented her mouth from falling open in sheer, disbelieving horror. ‘Child custody cases?’ she queried, and for one wild moment terror invaded her. He knows, she thought desperately. He wants Peter.
‘Sure.’ He shrugged big, powerful shoulders. ‘I’ve represented a lot of fathers contesting cases in the States. We’ve managed to break a lot of new ground.’
She swallowed, twirling the gold pen between her fingers like a drum majorette, so he wouldn’t see that her hands were shaking. ‘Oh? How’s that?’ She saw his big frame relax as he warmed to the subject.
‘Society’s changing. Women no longer have the right to assume that they are the child’s best custodian.’
Elizabeth felt slightly sick, her vision a little blurred, and her hand reached up so that she could rub her finger inside the rim of her shirt collar, the cool air to her neck making her vision thankfully clear again. ‘But a mother surely has a much stronger right than the man,’ she argued, her voice a hoarse whisper. ‘A biological right—given to them by nature, by the fact that they were the one who carried the child, gave birth to it, cared for it——’
He stared at her. ‘Nature over nurture?’ he queried. ‘But nature is often indiscriminate, is it not? A child’s future shouldn’t be governed by something as haphazard as the laws of nature.’
‘So you discriminate against women, do you, Mr Masterton? Use your trained lawyer’s silver tongue to buy your rich clients their child’s future?’
He frowned, as if momentarily puzzled by the reappearance of her aggressive stance. ‘On the contrary—I judge each case on its particular merits, and I pride myself on acting in the child’s best interests. But for too long fathers have suffered bad deals meted out to them by sentimental judges—giving them limited access which is laughable. At the very least there should be joint custody; unlimited access.’ He seemed to take in her unsmiling mouth. The dark eyes flicked to her left hand.
‘Are you married?’ he queried. ‘You are a Mrs, and yet you don’t wear a ring. Your husband must be a very liberated man.’
‘I—was married,’ she said slowly, the normal evasion she used when speaking of her past automatically shaping her answer.
‘Ah! No doubt why you speak with such fervour on the subject of child custody.’
He had assumed, as most people tended to, that her marriage had ended through divorce, rather than death.
His eyes narrowed with interest as he continued. ‘A fervour which goes against that very——’ and the eyes flicked now to the severe lines of her suit ‘—cool exterior.’ He smiled at her, a smile which could conquer all. ‘I trust I haven’t opened up any old wounds. Do you have children, Mrs Carson?’
She put her pen down on top of the folder, and gave him a chilly smile. The chilliest in her repertoire. ‘Mr Masterton,’ she said, her slightly condescending manner not lost on him, ‘fascinating as I’m sure you find it, my personal life really has nothing to do with why you’re here, does it? So perhaps if we could turn to a few salient points about the size of your prospective law firm ...?’
He didn’t like that, she realised. Not at all. He was not a man women would usually put down like that, not unless they had been hurt by him, of course—and he was ignorant of the fact that she belonged to that no doubt large band of women who had been hurt by him. And he must, she decided, that fiercely protective instinct coming to the fore once more—he must remain ignorant of the fact. For Peter’s sake.
She asked her questions, and he answered them, but there was an underlying tension which crackled in the air like electricity for the rest of the interview, and she saw that brief look of puzzlement cross his face once again.
You must make an effort, a voice urged silently. Stop antagonising him—for she recognised that he could be a dangerous adversary if aroused. He’s your client, the voice insisted, so drop the spiky manner. Ooze charm and he’ll probably run a mile. But she also knew that she wasn’t going to be able to keep up this dangerous farce for much longer.
She straightened the pile of papers on her desk, and looked at him expectantly—a polite if somewhat prim smile on her lips. ‘Well, Mr Masterton——’ And with an effort she increased the wattage of the smile. ‘That all seems to be fairly conclusive—I’ll have my secretary type up details for you first thing.’ And she need hardly meet with him again after today, thank God. Most of their communication would be by letter, maybe the occasional phone call.
Her words were intended as the precursor to a conclusion of the meeting. He knew it and she knew it, but he remained unmoving. Watchful, yet relaxed—a man totally at ease with the world, and his highly privileged place in it. She could see his forehead creased in concentration, as if he was trying to work out something in his head. Was he sensitive enough to have picked up anything from her behaviour?
In an effort to distract him, she spoke again. ‘Was there anything else you wanted, Mr Masterton? Anything you wanted to ask me?’
‘Yes.’
His next words filled her with both elation and horror.
‘Have dinner with me tonight.’
The laugh she gave was hoarse, and her voice cracked with the effort of it. The irony was not lost on her. For years she would have given everything she owned for just such an invitation, but now, in view of what he’d just said on the subject of custody—the reality of it was far too threatening even to contemplate. She put her hand over her breastbone. ‘Dinner?’
Still watching her closely, he smiled. But it was a cold smile, a smile which stayed light years away from his eyes. ‘Don’t look so shocked,’ he murmured. ‘Surely a man has asked you out to dinner before? You’ve been married too, so why sit there, your hand over your heart, as if I’ve suggested something which is in some way indecent?’
She gave him a chilly smile. ‘You’re a client,’ she pointed out.
He shrugged. ‘Nothing in the rule book to say we can’t eat together. Let’s call it a business dinner.’
‘But I thought we’d discussed everything we ought to—so how can it be?’
The dark-featured face remained disturbingly enigmatic. ‘You’re quite right of course, Mrs Carson. I’d like to have dinner with you because you intrigue me.’
She stood up, her heart beating like a piston. ‘Oh?’
‘Mmm. You do. Very much.’ He stood up also. ‘Your manner towards me has been remarkable, to say the least. Your secretary was taken aback, too—so you’re obviously acting out of character. When people behave out of character there’s always a reason. And I wonder why. Is it me?’
‘You mean you’re amazed that I haven’t responded to your abundant charm?’ she said angrily.
The eyes narrowed, and he smiled. ‘I haven’t used it yet,’ he murmured. ‘Do you want me to?’
She could have kicked herself. ‘I want you to let me get off home now,’ she said baldly. She badly needed to get him out of here, before she did or said something which would have dire repercussions for both her, and Peter.
‘Sure.’ He glanced at his watch on his wrist. ‘It’s getting late. Do you have a date?’
The perfect solution! ‘I—yes. Yes I do.’
‘Then I’ll see you to the lift,’ he said smoothly.
Helpless, trapped—for she how could she pretend her eagerness to be away and then linger around the office?—she reluctantly picked up her briefcase. ‘Thank you.’
The carpeted walk to the executive lift seemed like miles, the silence which hung in the air between them not an easy one, yet he, at least, showed no desire to break it, while she could think of nothing neutral to say. He stood aside to let her into the lift first, and she saw, to her horror, that he intended to accompany her! Alone, in the tiny confines of a lift—where even with people you knew well the atmosphere was always strained as you all stared mutely at the flashing lights. But alone with Riccardo—she corrected herself—alone with Rick Masterton ...
The lift doors slid open, and she went in first, putting her hand out immediately to press ‘ground’ with one plain, unvarnished fingernail, but he had beaten her to it, his finger firmly on the ‘hold’ button as he stared down at her, his face shadowed so that the light eyes appeared darkly fathomless as they searched her face as if in pursuit of the answer to a question which only she knew.
She shivered; nerves, fear and excitement—yes, excitement—combined to make her slender body tremble. For no matter how much her logical mind told her that after everything that had happened she should no longer be affected in any way by this man, her body knew differently. Her body betrayed her, as it had betrayed her so long ago. Her reaction to this man had always been disturbingly unique, and some things, it seemed, never changed.
Mute, and mere feet away from him, she saw the sharp planes and angles of that ruggedly handsome face, and some soft yearning deep at the very heart of her cried out its request. Tell him, said the voice. This is the man you once loved—so tell him about his son. Tell him about Peter. And she trembled again. But then she saw him give a tiny nod of his head, as though her helpless tremble in response to his proximity was merely par for the course.
‘The signals you’re sending out are delightfully and intriguingly mixed,’ he murmured. ‘You seem unable to quite decide whether to tell me to go to hell or to give in to what you really want to do ...’
She saw the predatory light firing in the depths of those incredible eyes and she thought that he was moving towards her as though to kiss her. My God—he was! And if he kissed her ...
She stepped back. His hand had left the ‘hold’ button, and she took the opportunity to press for the ground floor—and the lift purred into action.
She expected irritation on his part but there was none. Instead nothing but a kind of wry amusement, as though he were enjoying the silent tussle.
‘You like to fence, then?’ he queried. ‘That’s good. Because so do I.’
‘Evasive action was obviously called for,’ she said coldly.
He laughed. ‘Pity.’
‘Tell me,’ she enquired cuttingly, ‘do you always foist your attentions on perfect strangers?’
But he didn’t look at all offended as he shook his head. ‘That’s the peculiar thing,’ he murmured. ‘I don’t.’
And all of a sudden the game they were playing utterly sickened her. Here she was, almost flirting with a man who could, she realised—take away everything that she held dear.
The lift doors opened, and the commissionaire stepped forward.
‘Night, Mrs Carson,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Afraid you’ve just missed one.’
Rick’s eyes narrowed. ‘Missed what?’
‘My bus,’ said Elizabeth coolly.
‘Bus?’ Rick Masterton looked momentarily disconcerted. ‘But you have your own car, surely?’
She shook her head. She preferred the freedom of public transport, walking or taking a short bus ride to the Tube station, where at least she was able to work as she travelled home. Besides, parking was a nightmare. ‘No one drives in London,’ she said, forcing her voice to be airy.
‘Well, I do. My hire car is outside—you must let me give you a lift home——’
There was not, she realised, going to be a polite way of doing this. She turned to the commissionaire. ‘Frank?’ She smiled. ‘Please see Mr Masterton to his car—I have a couple of papers in my office which I have to go back for.’
‘Certainly, Mrs Carson.’
She turned her face to look into the darkly handsome face. ‘I’ll say goodnight, Mr Masterton.’ And Elizabeth held out her hand towards him.
He took it, in front of the commissionaire he played his part beautifully, but Elizabeth couldn’t miss the unmistakable glittering of irritation which fired at the depths of those incredible eyes.
CHAPTER TWO
ELIZABETH took the lift straight back up to her office, her hands trembling as she sat down at her desk and buried her head in her hands. ‘Please, God—no,’ she muttered brokenly, when the door to the adjoining room was thrust open and there stood Jenny—an astonished look of horror on her face.
‘Mrs Carson!’ she exclaimed, as she hurried over. ‘Elizabeth,’ she said gently. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
Elizabeth looked up unseeingly, her eyes bright.
‘What is it?’ repeated Jenny. ‘Do you need a doctor?’
Elizabeth shut her eyes again briefly.
‘You need something,’ said Jenny firmly.
Through a cotton-wool haze, Elizabeth heard the sounds of Jenny clattering around with bottles and glasses and moments later a glass of pale brown liquid was put into her hand.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
‘Brandy. Drink it.’
Normally calm, unflappable, in control—Elizabeth drained the glass like an obedient child, welcoming the warmth which licked at her stomach like fire.
Jenny sat down in the chair opposite, bolt upright, as though she were about to take dictation. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
Whether it was the large shot of brandy on an empty stomach, or simply the need to unburden herself to someone, she didn’t know—but Elizabeth did want to talk.
Apart from John, she had entrusted the story to no one—for years she had been filled with a sense of shame at what had happened, but the shame had at times been punctuated with a fevered yearning for the man who had turned her from child to woman in a few short hours.
‘I can’t tell you,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s too—shocking.’
Jenny gave a sad smile. ‘I don’t think so, my dear. I brought up a child of my own out of wedlock, remember?’
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. ‘You mean you knew ...’
‘That your husband wasn’t Peter’s father? Yes, I knew. Oh, just from little things you said, really. I’ve been working for you for a long time, remember. You can trust me, you know.’
‘I know I can.’ There was a pause. ‘That man—Rick Masterton—was ...is ...’ She looked up, her hazel eyes wide and frightened. ‘He’s Peter’s father, Jenny!’
She had expected some kind of appalled reaction, not Jenny’s slow and thoughtful nodding of the head.
‘That explains your behaviour,’ she said quietly. ‘But I don’t understand. Today, he didn’t seem to——’ her voice tailed off.
‘He didn’t recognise me,’ finished Elizabeth bitterly. ‘If anything was needed to convince me that I meant nothing to him, it was our little reunion today. Because there wasn’t even a flicker of recognition. That’s how much I really meant to Rick Masterton.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Jenny.
Elizabeth sighed as she started speaking, her voice very quiet, sounding as faraway as her thoughts. ‘It all began one summer evening, almost ten years ago,’ she said slowly, as the memories began to form. ‘I wasn’t Elizabeth then, I was Beth—and fresh out of the orphanage. I went to stay with a friend in London ...’
It had been one of those magical August summer evenings, the air warm, the ice-blue sky gilded with a golden haze from the sun, when the whole world had looked a gloriously happy place, and doubly magical for Beth, who had travelled down from Wales to stay with her friend Donna who had left the orphanage the year before to live and work in London.
‘I still can’t believe it!’ Beth had squealed fervently as she stared yet again at the slip of paper which listed her exam results.
‘Well, I can!’ retorted Donna. ‘And you deserve four “A” grades and your scholarship. Imagine! I said you were the brightest girl that they’ve ever had at the orphanage, didn’t I?’
‘But Oxford,’ said Beth, shaking her head a little as if in bemusement, so that her long pony-tail swung like a horse’s tail around her long, slender neck. ‘Do you suppose I’ll ever fit in there?’
‘With your brains, you’ll fit in anywhere,’ said Donna firmly. ‘Now go and run a bath—we’re going out to celebrate.’
‘I’ve hardly any money——’ protested Beth.
‘And you won’t need any—we’re going to a party.’
‘A party?’
‘Don’t look so shocked—it’ll be a perfectly decent party.’
‘I’m not really a party person,’ said Beth doubtfully. ‘Whose is it?’
‘Oh, the MD’s nephew is over from the States—they’ve hired some swanky rooms overlooking the river. They won’t mind if I bring a friend.’
‘Sure?’
‘Positive!’
But ‘party’ seemed far too humble a description for the glittering affair which Donna took her to, thought Beth, as she hovered nervously by the picture window under which the Thames glittered slickly. She had never seen such a collection of exotic creatures as the guests who mingled, danced, drank champagne and laughed uproariously.
She must look terribly out of place, she thought, chewing her bottom lip a little, and if the truth were known she felt out of place. Donna had taken her in hand, had dressed her for the party since Beth had brought nothing suitable, and didn’t have anything suitable in any case. Unfortunately, Beth was far more generously endowed that Donna, with lush, youthful curves of hip and breast. In the spangled emerald dress, her creamy breasts had spilled seductively over the bodice, making her resemble a heroine off the front cover of some historical bodice-ripper, according to Donna. ‘You look quite different,’ she said, her head to one side. ‘And if you wore strong cool colours all the time—like this emerald, or purple, or black or blue—the colour would be reflected in your eyes. OK?’
‘OK,’ agreed Beth hesitantly.
‘And you must wear your hair loose,’ Donna insisted.
So the shiny brown hair was left to cascade in waves almost to her waist, and Beth had scarcely recognised the glittery creature who gazed back at her from the mirror. Her eyes were pale and indeterminate—usually. Muddy, Beth called them, though Donna had described them as ‘hazel’. Tonight they looked completely different; Donna had been right—they were like mirrors reflecting the bright green of her dress and Donna had spiked the long, curling lashes with lots of mascara so that her face looked all eyes.
Her hand had automatically swooped down to pick up her wire-framed National Health glasses which everyone at the orphanage had teased her about, when Donna shot her a warning look and removed them from her grasp.
‘No glasses. Not tonight,’ she said firmly.
‘But I’m as blind as a bat without them,’ protested Beth.
‘Really?’ Donna looked aghast.
Beth took pity on her. ‘Well, not exactly—but I can only see clearly close-up.’
‘Great!’ teased Donna. ‘That’s all you need—to be able to see the hunk you’re dancing with!’
But, standing inside the elegant room at the party, staring straight ahead at the blurred crowd, she felt a bit of a fraud, wishing that she were back at the flat in her customary jeans and sweater, hair pulled back into its more usual plait, her nose deep in a book. Perhaps she could slip away unnoticed in a few minutes ...
So caught up was she in her plan to escape that she scarcely noticed the man who stood a couple of feet away, also gazing out at the flamboyant sunset.
Well, that wasn’t strictly true—of course she had noticed him; he had the kind of drop-dead gorgeous looks which meant that he would always have been noticed.
Most of the men there were dressed conservatively, either in suits or in casual trousers teamed with crisp, striped shirts. This man wore jeans, but with the kind of flair and panache that somehow managed to make him look the best-dressed man in the room. He wore a loose-fitting shirt which might have been silk, through which she could see a firm, hard chest, and the shirt was tucked into the jeans, displaying narrow hips and long, long legs.