Читать книгу A Reckless Affair - Alexandra Scott - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

GINNY MARTYN-BROWNE paused for a mere second beside the enormous plate glass windows, scarcely aware of her reflection in that instant and moving on before she could be intimidated and turn tail. For the hundredth time since leaving Heathrow she questioned the logic of what she was doing—the morality, even. There was little doubt that her actions placed the happiness of other people in jeopardy but she had come too far, suffered too long, to consider turning back now.

HUGO VANBRUGH ASSOCIATES. Directly in front of her eyes, embossed in gold on the smoked plate glass, it was enough to intimidate the most supremely confident, and to Ginny, with her toe on the second or third rung of the legal ladder, it caused a distinct tremor in the pit of her stomach... Nevertheless she straightened her spine, averted her gaze from the crushing superiority of the gold lettering and refused to be deflected from her purpose—not at this late stage, when she had just arrived in the Big Apple. Perhaps a few days ago, before she had made her impulsive decision would have been the time for second thoughts, but now...

Now was a moment for a final check on her appearance, and the dark glass was ideal for that purpose. Not too bad, in spite of her fatigue—the hasty shower back at her hotel had helped to hold that at bay...

Hmm. The business trip to Paris last month had not been entirely wasted. The exorbitantly priced, sleekly fitted trousers had been worth every sou, their burnt-cream colour blending perfectly with the multicoloured silk of her blouse and simple dark waistcoat. Make-up was freshly applied and understated. She was pleased with herself, and with the confidence she found to sweep past the uniformed doorkeeper.

She gave a flash of her business card and declared, ‘Miss Virginia Martyn-Browne of Brockway and Laffan, London, to see Mr Hugo Vanbrugh.’ Amazing what a little fabrication and a super-confident manner could achieve.

A moment later she’d been taken into the lift, and she stood there, heart hammering, palms damp while the attendant pressed buttons and they were whisked upwards.

She made an effort to divert her thoughts from the immediate, stomach-churning future. At least now she could return to being plain Ginny Browne, forget the self-importance of Virginia Martyn-Browne. And that might open an escape route—another comforting idea—if she should take an instant dislike to the man she had come to see. She could think up some excuse and leave, and he would be none the wiser.

But it was useless—she found herself gazing at her own reflection in polished copper walls which were a little distorted but all the more realistic for that. What she saw was far from reassuring: all her assumed insouciance began to evaporate.

Deep-set dark eyes, which she had been told could seduce and entrance, were now wide with shock and terror, and she could no longer understand or even begin to recall the primitive urge which had brought her here in search of her elusive background. As if it had any importance—it wasn’t that she had been de-prived...

Lips pale, she saw the tip of her tongue slip over them, her face colourless, drab. She very much doubted that Mr Hugo Vanbrugh would be impressed by her appearance. Only the dark hair, belling above ashen features, hidden gleams hinting, wrongly, at hours spent in front of a cheval glass with a silver brush, gave any distinction.

‘Mr Hugo’s offices.’ She had missed the soft warning ping of the lift but the attendant’s voice drew her attention to the now open doors and, further, to the spacious landing, deep carpeting and bowls of flowers. ‘His secretary’s door is at the far side. Thank you and have a nice day.’

And that, decided Ginny as she advanced into the silent world of antique side-tables, elegantly shaded lamps and discreet paintings, was very much a forlorn hope, but... It would be madness to chicken out, having come so far, having spent so many lonely, distressed hours tossing and turning, trying to reach a decision. She strode forward, fastened a confident smile on her face and opened the door that the attendant had indicated.

‘May I help you?’ Everything about the woman—clipped voice, perfectly smooth blonde hair brushed back from regular features—was straight out of Hollywood. Even the wonderfully plain navy suit with its short jacket and sparkling white blouse was perfect for her-role. Ginny had the feeling that when she stood her legs would be long, like those of a ballerina.

‘I would like to see Mr Hugo Vanbrugh, please.’ This woman could intimidate with a raised eyebrow, reducing Ginny from high-flying lawyer to office junior.

‘Do you have an appointment?’ Since she knew the answer to that, the query was mere rhetoric.

‘No, I don’t.’ Ginny gave a smile, deceptively calm and wholly at odds with the tempestuous beating of her heart. ‘But he’ll see me if you would be kind enough to give him my name.’

‘I’m afraid that is impossible.’ The woman—Karen Lavery, according to the sign on her desk—shook her head. ‘Mr Vanbrugh is operating on a tight schedule.’ She had the maddening habit of switching on a dazzling smile, then as you began to respond it disappeared. ‘In fact, it is company policy. He never agrees to see anyone without a prior appointment, otherwise there would be chaos.’ The on/off smile was nothing less than an accusation.

‘Except, of course—’ Ginny refused to allow herself to be intimidated—or at least to show she was ‘—the rules are being broken all the time.’

‘Not with—’ Karen broke in, but she was meeting Ginny at her most determined.

‘And if you tell him that Ginny Browne, of Brockway and Laffan in the City of London—’ she handed over the heavily embossed card which detailed an impressive list of qualifications ‘—on a matter of considerable importance and confidentiality, I’m sure you will find him willing to make an exception.’

‘Well...’ The blonde’s smile grew noticeably more strained, and she scribbled on a sheet of paper ripped from a pad and rose from behind her desk. She was not as tall as Ginny had supposed—legs shorter. The observation was mean but pleasing. ‘Please wait here.’

Resentment barely disguised, she went to a concealed door, closed it carefully behind her and reappeared a moment later. ‘Very well.’ Her voice was still more clipped and disapproving. ‘Mr Vanbrugh can spare you just four minutes. Please don’t delay him; he has an impossible timetable.’

On legs which had turned to jelly Ginny entered the huge office. Wraparound windows offered a view of the fabulous backdrop of New York City, to which she was at first oblivious as she looked round the apparently empty room. Then she heard a soft chuckle behind the wide desk and the back of a revolving chair swung slightly, the top of a dark head appeared, and her heart gave a fevered leap.

‘Yeah...’ Another amused growl, an impression of a...of a younger man than...

Then the conversation was ended, the receiver was replaced and the chair swung round to face her.

The figure uncurled itself from the black leather chair—he was tall enough to have played basketball with the Harlem Globetrotters. But how frustrating that she was unable to see his face, with the light behind him and with her looking directly into the glare...

‘Miss...’ A brief consultation of his note. ‘Miss Ginny Browne?’ The voice was deep and mellow, one that started all kinds of reaction in the pit of her stomach. ‘Of Brockway and Laffan. And what is your business with Vanbrugh Associates, Miss Browne?’ While speaking he came round from the expanse of mahogany and perched on one corner, a highly polished shoe swinging gently.

He was a tall man, powerfully built without being the least overweight. His jacket had been left slung over the back of his chair but the trousers were dark and formal, with a tiny red stripe, and accompanied by a white shirt, and a tie in restrained whorls of navy and red. She was still having trouble focusing and...

‘Not with Vanbrugh Associates.’ It was becoming more of an effort to keep up the pretence of calm self assurance; all the carefully rehearsed explanations had evaporated, driven out by the realisation that something was terribly wrong. If only she could see his face clearly she might be able to... ‘But with you personally- That is... You are Mr Hugo Vanbrugh, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am.’ He was relaxed. She caught the glint of white teeth and had an impression of close appraisal, feeling that no detail of her appearance was escaping his notice. Then he twisted slightly so that, for the first time, light slanted across his face and she was offered a glimpse of his eyes—densely blue, almost violet, and certainly the most beautiful she had ever seen in such an unambiguously masculine face.

A powerful man in every sense of the word. And exciting—that was something about which she must remain detached. For a split second she wondered why that was so essential...

‘What is your business with me, Miss Browne?’

And in that instant she found the answer—how could she miss it, when it was staring her in the face? But that did not mean it was easy for her to accept it. In fact her startled cry was a denial. She felt the ground begin to undulate beneath her feet. The dark blue carpet was rising to meet her, and... This was all wrong; there was no way this man was the one she had come so far to trace.

For one thing, deep in her brain was a powerful rejection of that possibility—a rejection which brought with it a curious sense of relief. And, for another, he was the wrong generation. This man, this Hugo Vanbrugh, could be no more than thirty-five. Much too young to be the father she had never seen, whose existence she had not suspected until recently, in search of whom she had made this precipitate trip to the States. Reality began to slip away from her, then; she felt herself being drawn into a yawning black abyss and welcomed it.

‘Take it easy.’ Emerging from the bottomless pit, Ginny found she was lying on a leather settee. A damp towel was being applied to her head, and a voice was expressing sympathy.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Raising weighted eyelids, she found her brain at once distracted by a problem—that a man should have such amazing eyes, such an unusually dark violet, and when showing deep concern as they were now... Her blouse was threatening to part from her waistband; she struggled to sit up in a more composed way.

‘I can’t imagine how that happened.’ Sheer nervous tension and excitement, most likely—fatigue from the flight, lack of food, all could have contributed. The secretary was there in attendance, too, much more cynical and suspicious than her employer. Ginny felt a blush starting, pulled again at her blouse and swung her feet determinedly onto the floor.

‘Don’t rush it...’

‘I’ve never fainted before.’ She tried to summon a smile but it was wobbly and insecure. ‘I ought to have given myself time to recover from the flight before rushing...’

‘Ah...you’ve just arrived. Then that explains it.‘ He had this curious air, tense but relaxed. ‘Maybe some tea, Karen?’ He raised an eyebrow in the direction of his secretary. ‘You wouldn’t mind fixing that for us, would you?’

‘Of course not.’ The cool glance was for Ginny, the smile for the man. ‘Which would you prefer, Miss Browne? Tea or coffee?’

‘Right now, I can’t imagine anything nicer than a cup of tea. If it’s no trouble.’

When they were alone together Ginny smiled ruefully, brown eyes gleaming with a touch of self mockery. ‘I’m afraid I’m taking up your time for no reason. You see, when I asked to see Mr Hugo Vanbrugh I was expecting a much older man. I think...’ This was the crux of the whole issue. Her entire future seemed to depend on his answer. ‘It must be your father I was hoping to meet—that is, if...’ How to ask delicately if his father was still alive? Or if the other should be his uncle, his cousin, even... Waiting for his reply, she found she was holding her breath.

‘My father, Miss Browne, is, I assure you, fit and well and still running this company very efficiently.’

‘Oh.’ His father! For no immediately obvious reason his assurance caused a tiny ache in the region of her heart but the arrival of the tea-tray was a distraction, a diversion from the need to analyse and dissect. Numbly she watched as the things were placed on a low table close to the settee.

‘Thank you.’ He gave a swift upward glance at the secretary, who paused with her hand on the doorknob.

‘You will remember, Jake, you have an appointment with the chairman of Genesis Holdings.’

‘Ah...’ He glanced at his watch.

From her position to his left Ginny could see that the wafer-thin gold disc, gold mesh bracelet and cuff-links, also in gold, were disappearing as he shrugged his arms into the jacket rescued from the back of his chair. A slender dark finger checked his shirt collar; he stretched his neck briefly and adjusted his tie.

‘That gives us—what? About two minutes would you say, Karen?’ He dismissed the woman, who was so clearly disapproving, with a smile. ‘Well, maybe you can stall him for a bit. You’ll try anyway, won’t you?’

And he hooked a chair with one foot, sat opposite Ginny and poured tea into two cups, one of which he handed across, offering sugar and milk as well as a plate of tiny sugary biscuit. ‘I’m sorry about the rush, Miss Browne.’

‘No.’ She was aware of being hideously intrusive, knowing only too well what unscheduled visitors could do to a carefully arranged timetable. ‘No, I’m the one who must apologise—I’ve taken an unfair amount of your time already. But, you see...’ Her mind raced and the truth seemed to adapt to the peculiar circumstances. ‘Your father and... and mine were great friends long ago... in Hong Kong ... and since...’ She must be careful, remember what she was saying. Even the slightest hint could have disastrous consequences.

‘I tell you what.’ Draining his cup, he stood up. ‘I’m due to speak with my father later this evening. I can let him know you’re here, and...’

‘Maybe...’ She felt a compulsion to equivocate, possibly because her feelings about the whole mission were so confused. She was so much less certain than she had been at first. ‘Maybe he won’t want to...he might have forgotten...’

‘I’m sure that won’t be the case, since he and your father were such friends, but, what I was going to suggest was to let me take you to dinner tonight, and then I can let you know.’

‘Oh.’ Most of her instinct was to seize the offer with both hands—there was just the tiniest sense of caution and reserve. ‘I think I have imposed enough already...’

‘You haven’t imposed. Besides...’ His eyes seemed unwilling to leave hers. They were so disturbing in their intense scrutiny. ‘I want to see you again. Nothing—’ his sudden grin was brilliant and earthshaking ‘—nothing at all to do with any friendship which existed between our parents. I shall collect you at... say... would seven-thirty be all right?’

‘Seven-thirty would be perfect,’ she said, meaning it. She rose, picked up her bag and turned to the door. ‘But, oh...’ She put her hand on the doorknob and paused. ‘Your secretary called you Jake just now.’ She lowered her voice as if there was the chance of Karen hearing their conversation through the heavy door. “That was what threw me—at first, you see, I did ask for Mr Hugo Vanbrugh.’

‘Ah, well, there is just one Hugo Vanbrugh., and, though I was christened with the same name, I’ve always been known by my second one to avoid confusion.’

‘Ah, that explains it, then.’

‘I look forward to seeing you later. Which hotel are you staying at?’

‘The Excelsior,’ she replied.

There was all the time in the world as Ginny made her way back through the bustling, lively streets for her to reconsider and regret so much lying and deceit. How much wiser to have avoided the folly of further contact with the son when her whole concern was with the father, and the very fact of that connection wholly precluded the possibility of more than friendship between her and Jake Vanbrugh. A shudder ran through her. It was a most melancholy thought—possibly the lowest point in the whole wretched business.

When she reached the hotel foyer she was achingly weary. Having misjudged the distance, she had been walking for more than an hour, so in the bedroom, she leaned her head against the door for a few moments before going to her as yet unpacked suitcase.

After rummaging for a few minutes her fingers came up against a hard square package which she stared at, filled with regret that it hadn’t been disposed of years ago. And she wished with a quite desperate longing, for her days of lost innocence, before the shock of her mother’s death in that car crash. That had been more than enough for anyone to cope with. And then to find that her entire existence was based on a lie...

It had been such a bitter, ghastly time. Looking back now, it took on the quality of a nightmare—there were days when she was certain it had happened to someone else, when she was sure she would wake and find all was well, that she wasn’t involved in this cruel history which was turning her life upside down. But in her hands she held the evidence—undeniable, absolute.

It had been weeks after the accident before she could bring herself to start the task of clearing out the family home, but at length, refusing the offers of help from various friends, she’d steeled herself and had begun to make some headway.

She had been sitting in the small room which her mother had designated the sewing room, the beauty of the spring day with the sun streaming through high arched windows and all the daffodils planted by her parents stirring gently in the breeze adding a poignant touch. Then she’d reached down for the wrapped and taped package at the bottom of the now almost empty blanket chest. And in that instant her life had fallen apart.

Even now she found it difficult to believe that Tom Browne, who had died two years previously, the man who had been such a tender and devoted father to her, was in fact unrelated by blood. Her own existence was due to a brief and very passionate affair her mother had had in Hong Kong.

The whole story was contained in the diary, in the few letters which had been hidden away for so many years and which, for all Ginny knew, would never have been revealed but for the car crash. But for the devastating suddenness of that event her mother would, in all likelihood, have destroyed the package.

Desolated by the loss of both her parents within such a short time, Ginny had found her anguish compounded by the new disclosures. Any doubts she might have clung to had been blown away by the letter her mother had written to Colonel Hugo Vanbrugh, addressed to the Military Division of the American Embassy in Saigon.

It was a passionate letter, but also touching and rather frightened, telling him that as a result of their affair she was pregnant. But the letter had never been posted, possibly because—and this was made much clearer in the diaries—they had already decided to part.

Reading the fevered soul-searching, the intensely private baring of feelings, Ginny had felt intrusive but, because of her own deep involvement, the story had been irresistible. Even various things which had vaguely puzzled her over the years were, in part, explained. Those times when her mother had seemed withdrawn, when it had seemed all her thoughts and emotions were elsewhere. It was easy now to understand.

Just once in a while there had been glimpses of a more passionate woman than the one who had kept her feelings under such strict control, while her father... Ah, well, not really that, it seemed, but the man who would always be regarded as such. Tom Browne had been placid, calm, even-tempered—a good man, a kind husband and father—but not, one might have thought, the kind of man who would have attracted Jane...

Often Ginny had mused on the apparent disparity, but then what child hadn’t pondered the improbability of sexual attraction between its parents? But what was true in this case was that Jane Browne had been an extremely striking woman, beautiful even in middle age, while Tom had been simply an average Englishman, neither good-looking nor particularly plain. But perhaps when they were both young—at least Jane had been young when they’d met and married—things might have been different.

It was so difficult to judge these things when the experience of her own generation was so very different. Intelligent women nowadays did not see marriage as any kind of goal—in fact, the very idea of any woman committing herself for life at nineteen was difficult to understand...

Tom had been an army dentist when they’d met in Germany, where Jane’s father, also an army man, had been serving, and... Oh...it was impossible to judge these things—a youngish major, a pretty girl; they could even have fallen madly in love.

The one thing that was abundantly clear was that when Jane had been on her own in Hong Kong for a few weeks—Tom back in London on some kind of military course—she had met Hugo Vanbrugh and there had been instant attraction. Neither had been willing or able to control their feelings, that much was obvious in the one letter from him—several thin, yellowing pages folded inside the back cover of the journal, pages in which Hugo bared his soul, and damned fate that they hadn’t met before committing themselves to others.

The diaries reflected some of the anguish Jane had suffered in trying to cast aside the religious scruples which forbade divorce—she had so longed to be free of them, but in the end she’d admitted that abandoning them could possibly poison any happiness she and Hugo could have together.

As it is, I know I have betrayed Tom and my marriage, and I shall suffer lifelong remorse, but, Hugo, I shall always give thanks that you were sent to me. And I shall love you for the rest of my life.

The farewell letter she had written to him twenty-seven years ago, after their decision to part, was touching in its intensity, even though it began with the caveat that she did not know if she would ever send it, but it was sealed and stamped—and wept over, if Ginny’s interpretation of the blotches was correct.

I’m torn, because I feel it is your right to know I am going to have your child. And yet what good can it do? More anguish for everyone will result—for you and your family, too, perhaps. You know I’m very fond of Tom and don’t want to hurt him any more than I have already done, but you know, too, that when we married I had no idea what real love was about. Even afterwards I wondered what all the fuss was for. Then, Hugo, I met you and I knew.

I think I conceived two weeks ago, on that last fraught night we spent together. Such joy and such despair. But Tom returns tomorrow, and if, as we planned, our lives return to normal, then he will never know the child is not his. What possible good would it do to tell him and break his heart? You see, he loves me.

The letter continued for several pages of intimate reminiscences, with a postscript saying that she had decided against further contact and then a last note with Ginny’s name and date of birth.

In the months between her discovery and her journey to New York thoughts of her mother and Hugo Vanbrugh had dominated Ginny’s mind. Had Jane intended one day that her daughter should find out the truth about her birth? Or had she meant eventually to destroy the evidence? It was something she would never know and, in a way, that very uncertainty had brought her to the United States.

By seven-fifteen Ginny had got herself entirely under control. All the foolish reactions to the man she had met earlier in the day were totally unbalanced—the result of too many emotional upheavals and an overactive imagination. Recent events had left her in a vulnerable state; add to that her sudden black-out and it was little wonder that Jake Vanbrugh had come over as a cross between Sir Galahad and Richard Gere.

In any event she had never been particularly susceptible to handsome men, and now was most definitely not the time to start. She gave her reflection a sardonic grin.

On the other hand it was good to be able to take a certain amount of complacent assurance from her appearance. The calf-length skirt swaying above shiny black boots was smart and sophisticated enough for wherever he planned to take her. The green silky material clung lovingly to her slender figure, picking up all kinds of subtle shades where the light caught it. The white lawn blouse was full-sleeved and billowy, elaborately tucked and with a prim high collar which made her hold her head proudly. She wore earrings, too, antique silver set with brilliants, which glittered against her dark hair.

Generally, she could see the rest had done her good. A sparkle had returned to the luminous brown eyes, a faint blush to the creamy cheeks—and if the whole was enhanced by a skilled hand with make-up, so what? Her pleased smile was entrancing; the new lipstick in a silky shade of plum suited her wide mouth and exaggerated the white teeth.

‘How convenient, Tom,’ she remembered a friend remarking, ‘that your daughter should be such a wonderful advertisement for your craft.’

And all the time...

A familiar ache returned to her chest, but at that very instant the telephone rang. Her escort, she was told, was waiting, and her heart gave a tiny plop. She forced herself to sit calmly for half a minute before picking up her bag, pulling the door behind her and walking to the lift as sedately as if she had an appointment with her bank manager.

But he was as disturbingly good-looking as she had imagined. Her fainting fit, her empty stomach, the stress—all had nothing to do with it. The realisation was seriously unwelcome. Watching him turn when he heard the lift doors, she held her breath, then, with a determined attempt to distract, found herself taking mental notes.

The hair—which she had thought as dark as sable—had, with the glow of a lamp behind his head, a suggestion of chestnut in it, but that disappeared when he came forward, hand extended.

‘Ah...’ His mouth curved upwards in appreciation, those splendid violet eyes gleaming as they absorbed each detail of her appearance from the sheen of silky hair to the full mouth—his interest in which she found more than a little disturbing.

She could not say what banal greetings were exchanged before, a moment later, they were being driven off in his limousine. The vehicle purred effortlessly, edging its way through heavy traffic, finally pulling into the parking area of a small, unobtrusive restaurant just off the main thoroughfare.

‘Thanks, Steve. Give us about two—two and a half hours.’

The uniformed chauffeur helped her from the car and then she was being guided inside. And if the outside was unobtrusive, the inside was subdued luxury. This was instantly obvious.

They soon ordered and were sipping a chilled Catawba which Ginny found deliciously reviving. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the glossy white cloth, perceptive eyes ranging over her features in a way she could only describe as seductive, ‘Now tell me, what exactly is it you would like to speak with my father about?’

With meticulous care she put down her glass, eyes lowered protectively as she considered how to deal with any sudden surge of nerviness. Now she was in control, all wide-eyed innocence as she switched her attention abruptly to his face. ‘Has he—has he asked you to filter any message to me?’

‘No.’ A dark eyebrow was raised in surprise—she wondered if her words had roused some momentary suspicion. ‘No. Unfortunately I was unable to contact him, but I shall be seeing him at the weekend and... No, the question was on my own account and merely because I am curious.’

‘Ah.’ A touch of colour warmed her cheeks, brought an added gleam to her eyes. Above all she must seem sincere. ‘There isn’t a great deal to tell. Among my parents’ things...’

‘Are they both dead, your parents?’

‘Yes, my father died two years ago and my mother... she was in a car crash earlier this year.’ It was dismaying to hear her voice shake. She had been convinced that she had passed through the grievously wounded stage. Now she bit fiercely at her lower lip. ‘They were both too young. Dad sixty, Mum not quite fifty.’

‘That is sad.’ There was a pause before he went on. ‘And you were left alone?’

‘Yes. No brothers or sisters.’ The idea of being alone, the one she had been trying to ignore, made her draw in a deep breath. Quickly she tried to force her thoughts along a different path, but he was not going to allow that.

‘And you were saying...?’ He was gently persuasive. ‘Among your parents’ things...?’

‘Ah, yes.’ Her fingers played with the stem of her wineglass. ‘Among their things were some letters, one or two mementoes, and a tiny picture with a note attached with detailed plans about how, at some time in the not too distant future, they meant to contact Hugo. They were planning a long tour of the States when Dad retired.’

That, at least, was true, although the reason for it was not what she was implying. She was certain that the two men had never met—certainly nothing she had read suggested that such a meeting had ever taken place.

With a tremendous effort she was able to control her feelings, was able, even, to produce a wan smile and a shrug—which, to her companion, seemed hopeless—vulnerable rather than philosophical. ‘It simply goes to show one should do things when one can, not plan for a future which can so easily... elude one.’

‘We should all remember that.’ He touched her hand sympathetically, removing his almost at once, just as she became aware of a powerful and affecting reaction. Fortunately there was a diversion as plates were placed in front of them, napkins shaken out...

‘And this company you work for...’ He handed her the pepper mill, watched as she ground the spice over broiled lobster, his mouth curving in amusement as it was handed back. ‘This Brockway and Laffan—it does exist, I suppose?’

‘Of course.’ Her eyes widened in mock reproof. ‘How can you doubt it? They are one of the oldest chambers in the City.’

‘And your position with them?’

‘Is a very junior one. I’ve been there since I qualified, three years ago, and if I work hard I have hopes of a partnership—a junior partnership—in, oh, in about twenty years’ time.’

‘As soon as that, eh?’ One elbow on the table, a finger moving against the almost smiling mouth, he leaned forward.

The compelling gaze, more violet than blue, held her in an intense, very nearly intimate scrutiny—so intimate that her whole body came alive with the joy of it—pulses throbbing, blood singing, heart pounding, eyes glowing.

‘But I shall be surprised, Miss Ginny Browne, to find you still with Brockway and Laffan in two years, let alone twenty.’

‘Really?’ Silly to sound so breathless, so naive, when she most certainly was not, when all she was doing was enjoying herself with an intelligent, attractive man and with absolutely no strings. That was what made it such a special attraction. ‘And where do you imagine I’ll be in...yes, let’s say in two years’ time?’

‘Not, I suggest, among the dusty files of one of the oldest firms in the City of London.’

‘The oldest firm does not necessarily imply fusty Dickensian premises.’

‘Ah, so you’re in modern offices?’

‘Not exactly.’ Later she might explain that they occupied a pair of terraced houses built originally for well-to-do city merchants. Elegant staircases led to the partners’ chambers, with masses of highly polished mahogany and brass, and there were walled gardens to the rear, which were fragrant in summer with old-fashioned roses and honeysuckle, pinks and peonies. It was light years from his prestigious penthouse, but there was little doubt as to which she preferred.

‘You are being so provoking and evasive, Miss Browne.’ He frowned, emphasising the degree of his disapproval by covering her hand with his. The thumb stroked her gently and, though it was difficult to admit, excitingly. His expression continued to show amusement. ‘Do they teach that at law school these days?’

‘They teach us to be accurate and questioning!’ Her manner was tart, a little defensive, and all because of that disturbing touch. If she could extract her hand casually, or... A tiny shudder was repressed. What if she were to obey her instincts, if she were to turn her hand over so their palms were in contact, with the possibility of fingers lacing? Her eyes grew dreamy with longing and there was a powerful but unfamiliar sensation in the pit of her stomach...

And then he moved, severing the moment, the indulgence. She sighed relief and...and she would not think of frustration. Hurriedly she tried to backtrack. ‘You still haven’t answered my question.’

‘And that was?’

Now she must keep the conversation light, with no opportunity for emotional complications. ‘Where do you imagine I shall be in two years’ time?’ Oh, heavens! Was she being deliberately provocative? Inviting speculation which she hoped would flatter or at least please her?

‘Married, I should say was the most likely scenario.’

‘Married?’ Her tone suggested he’d mentioned a synonym with slavery and bondage. ‘But even if I were to marry...’ she continued with the pretence that such a circumstance had never entered her mind, longing to grin at herself but managing to keep a straight face. ‘...and that would be if the worst should happen—that does not mean I would leave the company.’

‘It might.’ He pursed his lips, his amused expression lingering. ‘But, then again, it might not. I concede to that extent.’

The best defence was attack, and at that moment she felt much in need of defence—from her own feelings if from nothing else. ‘Now, Mr Vanbrugh, first of all, you don’t even know me. I might be already married.’

‘No ring.’ He caught her left hand, smiling in triumph, and took it to his mouth.

Without an impressive degree of self-control she would surely have flinched, but she was confident her inner turmoil was totally concealed—other than, perhaps, a tiny tremble in her voice which might have given him a clue.

‘Neither,’ she began firmly, ‘do you wear a ring.’ They ought not to be going down this road, ought not to be acting in this silly, almost—oh, heavens—almost flirtatious way. At least, she ought not to be—he might be excused. ‘But I certainly do not make the deduction that you are unmarried...’

‘It would be the right one.’

His reply in itself might have set off alarm bells, but all she was aware of was a throb of satisfaction. ‘Nevertheless, it need not have been.’

‘Are you telling me...?’ When she pulled gently, he released her hand. ‘Are you telling me I was wrong to draw implications from the absence of a ring?’

‘Not exactly,’ she said primly, repressing the desire to smile but capitulating when he grinned.

‘I rest my case.’ Both of them sat back, smiling at each other, while waiters came to remove plates and to serve the next course.

It was impossible, she conceded with a tiny pain immediately below her ribs, to pretend she didn’t find him dangerously attractive. In a room full of good-looking, wealthy men he stood out. That was not simply her own opinion—more than one woman in their immediate neighbourhood would probably be willing to neglect her escort for Jake Vanbrugh. That he had been recognised when they arrived was obvious—he had exchanged casual greetings with several couples but had shown no signs of wishing to linger or introduce them to Ginny.

They were drinking strong black coffee when he dropped his bombshell, one which made her crash down her cup and look at him in consternation. ‘On Saturday, Ginny, I’m going down to Richmond to visit my parents. I want you to come with me.’

‘What?’ She frowned, taking a moment to allow her brain to absorb the implications. Then her reaction was immediate. ‘Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly; I wouldn’t dream of intruding.’ The whole situation was getting out of hand. It was Mr Hugo Vanbrugh she had come all this way to see; there had been no intention of becoming involved with other members of his family.

She felt a sob begin to rise in her throat as thoughts of her own deceit began to hit her. She had meant to be so honest, so understanding. Certainly the last thing in her mind had been the possibility of some kind of perverse emotional entanglement. But she could at least nip that in the bud—she herself was the only one who might suffer and...

‘You wouldn’t be.’ The flimsy excuse was disregarded the instant it was uttered, and with the smiling charm which was proving impossible to resist.

They decided to stroll back to her hotel. The limousine was dismissed and it was impossible for Ginny to deny the pleasure of the experience—being with a handsome man with unobtrusive good manners, added to a certain amount of euphoria engendered by the wine...

‘My parents are hospitable people,’ he continued, his hand touching her elbow to warn of an obstruction in their path. ‘And I know they would love to see you.’

Now his touch became more of a threat. He seemed to be tempting her into a trap of her own making, arousing feelings she was reluctant to face, and her shiver was an involuntary reaction.

‘You’re cold. I knew we should have been driven.’

‘No, I’m not cold.’ She took a firm grip of herself. ‘Not in the very least. It was simply... Anyway...’ A change of subject was indicated, before she lost herself in a maze of unconvincing explanations. ‘I don’t feel I can go, Jake, I... I took only a few days off work...’

‘You won’t see my father otherwise. He and my mother are off on a cruise next week, so... you’d best fly down with me if you want to see him.’

They had reached the hotel and went in and sat down in the foyer, deserted now but for the young man who sat yawning behind the reception desk.

‘Besides, apart from that—’ his eyes were signalling a message she hardly dared translate ‘—I want to see you again.’

His swift, unexpected touch, just the brush of a finger against her cheek, brought her heart leaping in wild agitation.

‘More than that, I’m determined on it. You may not know it—’ he leaned forward, his manner becoming more intimate ‘—but Hugo Vanbrugh is a very determined man, used to getting his own way, and I’ m cast in the same mould as my father.’ He smiled as if his words were not to be taken entirely literally—he might even have been amused by her wide-eyed expression of shock.

Yes, she thought numbly, she could see that Hugo Vanbrugh was someone very used to having his own way—she was living proof of that, and she felt a stab of disgust. What kind of man was it who would seduce a lonely young wife? It was convenient to forget her mother’s willing participation... Then Jake’s voice brought her back from her reverie.

‘But you look tired. Why don’t you go up to bed now?’ Automatically she allowed herself to be led to the lift, and stood waiting while it was summoned. ‘Have a good night’s sleep.’ Again a finger brushed tenderly, this time against her mouth. ‘I shall have Karen bring over all the details tomorrow and I shall pick you up here on Saturday morning. Good-night.’

Leaning back in the furthest corner of the lift, she watched the doors slide closed to exclude him. Only then did she release a great sigh, as if, by some feat of courage and daring, she had escaped encroaching danger. And it was a few seconds before her disordered thoughts were sorted to the extent that she could recognise the exact nature of that danger.

There was only one thing for it: she must leave New York at the first opportunity—tomorrow morning if possible. There were many places in the States where she could happily spend the rest of her short stay. Boston or St Louis, even Sioux City—anywhere that the Vanbrugh empire was unlikely to extend, and where, perhaps more to the point, Jake Vanbrugh was unlikely to think of looking for her.

Certainly the present situation was one she could never have envisaged. It had all been so carefully plotted—to come and to make the most discreet contact with the man who had fathered her so many years ago. It was not difficult to visualise how much of a shock such a piece of news might be to a happily married man.

She knew few men would welcome such news, and that was why she had been so cautious, why she had concocted such a misleading explanation. She had meant to cause no anxiety—her first concern would have been to assure him there was no threat of exposure. And then after passing on the few things which might have held some sentimental interest for him, they would have said goodbye, she would have returned to her job in London and any future meetings would have been arranged by mutual consent.

It had been her hope, but no more, that their meeting would settle the deep uncertainty which had troubled her after discovering the truth about her birth. And if it didn’t then she was determined it would be her problem, one she would keep to herself and not expect him to share.

True, there had been the fanciful notion that he might from time to time visit her in the UK, that they could get to know each other, might even find they liked each other. After all, since her mother had fallen so hopelessly in love with him, and he with her mother, Ginny and he were bound to find some common ground. And, in a strange way, she felt she would be doing something for her mother—completing a story which had been unresolved for more than a quarter of a century.

She reached her bedroom and began, listlessly, to unbutton her blouse. Only, the plans she had made had begun to unravel the moment she’d reached New York. For one thing, on finding the company had offices in the city centre, she had rushed off immediately. Experience ought to have told her it was unlikely she would be ushered into the presence of the top man—life in the higher echelons simply did not work like that and, in any case, what she had most certainly not anticipated was meeting not the man himself, but his son. Still less had her wildest flights of fancy expected that, after a few hours’ acquaintance, she would find herself in the gravest danger of falling in love.

There! She had faced up to the dread which had been hovering at the back of her mind all evening. Her knees gave way and she sank onto the bed. Fingers pressed against her mouth, she stared at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror, hardly noticing that her face was drained of colour or that her eyes were wide with shock.

In spite of herself she was reliving that moment in the restaurant when she’d had that yearning to turn her palm up to his, to feel the brush of sensitive skin on... A shudder of something very close to fear ran through her.

With determination she got up and began to walk about the room, putting clothes away as she made up her mind to deal with the dangers.

If she was to keep on reminding herself that Jake Vanbrugh was her half-brother then all these juvenile feelings would die down. It was most likely all down to the intense emotions of the past months, plus the very fact of arriving in New York. The combination was more than enough to knock anyone off balance.

Slightly more relaxed, she pulled her nightdress over her head and went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Tomorrow she would leave a polite little note for Jake, letting him know that a distant cousin had flown in from Nova Scotia and had persuaded her to join a trip to Niagara Falls. The permutations were endless.

Ginny pulled the light-cord and stood in the half-dark, dreading that moment when the bedside lamp would be extinguished and she would face the bleak terror of the night. There was a word used to describe illicit feelings between certain blood relatives, one from which she shrank with disgust.

But it was firmly lodged there at the back of her mind and she could drive it out only by seeing Jake Vanbrugh as he was—her half-brother. She had to find the strength to take him up on his invitation, to fly down to Richmond with him. It was the only way she would be forced to face the truth and to see Jake Vanbrugh as her father’s son. That was what he was and always would be. Nothing less, and certainly nothing more.