Читать книгу Mandate For Marriage - Catherine O'Connor - Страница 6

TYRES crunched against loose gravel as the sleek dark burgundy car curved into a parking space. Fiona watched the car’s arrival with nervous interest, a wave of nostalgia sweeping over her. She stepped back from the window as the car door was flung open. She didn’t want to be seen, not yet. Tentatively she peeped back out; she could see his breath forming a vaporous cloud, as if he were breathing fire, and somehow the possibility did not seem that remote. He had a fiery temper, she recalled with alarming clarity, and she shuddered at the memory. He slammed the car door shut and stepped out across the car park, impervious to the chilling air that blew against him.

Fiona moved away from the window, picked up a glass of water and tossed back her head as she swallowed two aspirins; the threat of a headache was already surfacing. It was due to tension, she knew, and she rolled her shoulders to relieve the stiffness in her neck. The line of her mouth thinned in anger as she then made her way to the door, her heart already racing. The past week had played havoc with her nerves: first there had been the abrupt letter that informed her of his return; and then the transaction which she feared was coming, and which she knew she would have no choice but to complete, only increased her anxiety.

She took a deep breath as she opened the door, the crisp morning air hitting her with its icy blast. Her chest violently contracted, causing a pain to sear through her body like the sharpest of knives. She stared at the back of the tall figure, suddenly aware of her self-deception as her heart flipped at the very sight of him. He seemed taller than she remembered, more daunting than ever, and it was not a meeting she was looking forward to.

He turned smartly as if sensing her presence and she froze under his penetrating gaze. His vivid blue eyes sparkled with a glint of humour in his freshly tanned face, and his thick blond hair seemed to have grown even fairer.

‘Hi, Fee,’ his smoky voice drawled, the intimate abbreviation of her name suddenly making her feel defensive. The familiar ring of his mid-Atlantic accent flooded her mind with another flurry of memories, and her heart leapt still further as she struggled to control the chaotic jumble of thoughts and emotions he was stirring in her. It was six months since she had seen him, six long, hard months of self-doubt and recriminations, but she had coped; despite his cunning betrayal, she had survived and—more importantly—so had the family firm—till now.

‘Hello, Grant,’ she acknowledged, her voice calm yet distant and betraying none of the heady emotions she was feeling. ‘How are you?’

She stretched out her hand, determined to make him understand that this was a business arrangement. His eyes darted to her hand, then back to her face, before he took it m a firm grip.

‘I’m fine, never felt better, and you?’ He grinned as he held her hand longer than necessary, allowing his thumb to brush lightly against her racing pulse. She drew her hand back, too aware of his electric touch, and gave him a polite but cool smile.

‘I’m very well, thank you,’ she replied, as she stepped back to allow him to enter.

‘You don’t look it,’ he threw back at her, with an imperious nod of his head.

‘Well, I am!’ she snapped, hating how childish she sounded and knowing the amusement she afforded him. He swept past and she felt the cold flicker of his eyes whip across her body, as the faint scent of sandalwood aftershave filled her nostrils.

‘You’ve lost weight,’ he commented briefly; his voice was harsh and abrasive, lacking the warmth she had been used to. The look in his sharp blue eyes was critical, and they narrowed as he viewed her outfit.

‘Have I?’ she snapped back, then added nastily, ‘Most men prefer women slimmer, including you.’

‘I liked you the way you were, but there again you have changed in so many ways,’ he said thoughtfully. Fiona stiffened, disliking his obvious appraisal of her.

‘I’ve grown up, if that’s what you mean,’ she retorted.

‘Grown up!’ he scoffed. ‘I suppose refusing to take my calls while I was in America is the action of a mature person?’ he snapped back with a force that shocked her.

‘I expected you back,’ she confessed, almost ashamed of such a foolish admission.

‘Something cropped up,’ he growled, his eyes darkening dangerously, but he was unwilling to give any further details, and Fiona wasn’t about to ask. She had refused to accompany him back home to meet his family. It was supposed to be their honeymoon, but she couldn’t carry on with that farce—not after she had been told the truth by Andrew.

‘I understand, and I think we said all we wanted to before you left,’ she grated, her eyes flashing back at him.

‘You said a lot, none of which made any sense, and look at you now—you’re a shadow of your former self. What’s going on, Fee?’ he asked, his tone strangely at odds with his look of annoyance.

‘You need to ask?’ she replied. It was all his fault. She had lost weight, and sleep, as she had struggled unsuccessfully to fight off the takeover that she felt sure he was planning. Now it all seemed sadly futile.

‘Still talking m riddles? Look, Fee, I know something has gone wrong, but surely we can work it out?’

There was a plea in his voice that sounded almost genuine, and Fee felt a momentary lapse.

‘Now is not the time to discuss personal issues,’ she retorted tartly.

‘No? I think our relationship, our marriage, is of paramount importance.’

‘It’s a pity you didn’t have that same conviction six months ago,’ she responded. She darted him a look, hoping that her gibe hurt, but she was disappointed. He remained unmoved by her caustic remark. His eyes fixed on hers. She smoothed her skirt down in a nervous gesture.

‘Stop pretending we’re here to discuss the distillery and nothing else,’ she added forcefully. She wanted to be a cool-headed businesswoman, in control, yet some-how already uncomfortable doubts were beginning to form.

‘Who’s pretending?’ he drawled mockingly. Fiona frowned; this was much too important a meeting to allow personal feelings free rein. They had other things to discuss, things of greater importance, and no doubt the real arguments would begin then.

‘Shall we go up to the offices?’ she said, changing the line of conversation abruptly and pushing her heavy chestnut-coloured fringe from her face. He obviously derived satisfaction from that gesture. It betrayed the fact that she was not as calm and poised as she looked.

‘OK,’ he replied quickly. This was going to be more difficult than she thought, Fiona admitted silently to herself as they crossed the foyer and made their way to the offices.

‘You’re very efficient this morning,’ he drawled as he walked confidently, his stride set with a purposefulness that rankled her.

‘Better late than never,’ she snapped back, wishing she had come to her senses sooner. Then she would never have been in this position. She had known this day would come, yet she had tried so hard to prevent it. Now, despite all her hard work, the day of reckoning had arrived. He had returned the true victor, ready to claim his spoils.

‘So you’ve come to your senses?’ he repeated. ‘And you now fully understand the situation?’ he taunted.

‘Yes, I do,’ she spat back. ‘I know exactly why we married and why you failed to return from America.’

‘I doubt that, Fee. As for my prolonged stay in the States, it was partly to help you,’ he said quietly.

‘Help me? Help yourself more like—to my family’s business—and, as for our marriage…’ she returned bitterly.

‘There was no coercion. You married me willingly, remember?’ he interrupted.

She swallowed the rising bile at the back of her throat as she recalled the claim he had made on her and how willingly she had given herself to him. At this moment she hated him, hated the pretence and the deceit, but, even more than that, she hated the hurt and vulnerability that he still aroused in her.

‘Let’s just stick to the reason why we are here,’ she clipped back, not wanting to be reminded of her own foolishness.

‘Yes, then at least we should have some common ground to build on,’ he replied blandly, ignoring the shadow of pain that flitted across her face.

‘Business is indeed the only area where we share a common interest,’ Fiona reminded him coolly, still striving to keep the conversation on a strictly nonpersonal level.

‘How things have changed,’ he said almost huskily as he increased his stride, and Fiona felt a momentary stab of remorse at his words. She kept pace with his long steps with difficulty, allowing her gentle brown eyes to skim over him. He had come dressed for business: his well-cut suit was dour and grey, his black shoes highly polished and his shirt pristine white, offset with the splash of a cool vine-green silk tie. Did he want to put their relationship behind them and stick to the matter in hand? He carried a slim leather briefcase in his hand and Fiona’s stomach sank when she spotted it. She knew what papers it contained and she blazed with a flare of anger and defiance.

‘Your visit to America appears to have been fruitful,’ she said pointedly.

‘I did telephone every day,’ he reminded her. ‘Had you taken my calls I would have told you exactly what was going on.’

A sudden flash of pain flickered in his eyes and Fiona wondered what had exactly gone on in America. He was usually so sure of himself, so confident of his power and his business capabilities.

‘I had no reason to take your calls. I was too busy trying to protect my business from a takeover.’ Fiona bit thoughtfully into her bottom lip; she had tried so passionately to raise the money herself but all the banks were reluctant, some of them positively hostile.

‘You’re joking! Why do you never listen to me? Your distillery is old-fashioned, you’re losing money hand over fist and have been for years. You British are just so sentimental,’ he accused.

‘I couldn’t stomach the alternative. This area suffers enough from unemployment,’ she said through gritted teeth. His tough American business acumen left no room for feeling, Fiona felt. He couldn’t understand her commitment to the area. She sighed audibly; her family had given so much to this place, they were part of it, part of the Lowlands. Their hearts were here, as they had been for generations.

‘I didn’t mention job losses, just reallocation. Anyway, you were keen enough to support Andrew Farr’s ideas,’ he said, angrily shaking his head in disbelief.

She sighed again. She knew sooner or later it would come back to Andrew. Grant’s distrust of him was partly fuelled by jealousy. She frowned, unaware that Grant was watching her. She was too preoccupied to notice. He marched into her office, shrugging his jacket from his broad shoulders and flinging it casually over a chair. He walked to the window and opened it, taking in great gulps of the crisp fresh air.

‘It’s stuffy in here,’ he noted, turning away from the open window and fixing his glacier gaze on her.

‘I haven’t been here very often.’ There was a breathless catch in her voice which she immediately tried to hide. I’ve been too busy…’ Her voice trailed away as he sat down, placing his briefcase in front of him. Fiona watched in silent fascination at his arrogance.

‘My sister was thinking of coming over later this year to have a look around,’ he commented casually.

‘Really?’ replied Fiona, trying to keep cool. She had longed to meet Grant’s older sister. He came from a large, loving family who had all seemed delighted with the news that he was marrying. His sister and Fiona had spoken on the phone and she seemed great fun. There was little point now, though. She wanted to make a clean break of it, to concentrate on keeping her family’s firm, and yet it hurt. Had she meant so little to him that he could forget everything? Maybe Andy was right, he was just using her. It wouldn’t be the first time she had fallen for such a ruse. She gave a bitter smile as she recalled Mark: he had been a third-year student at college, bright, popular and very attractive. In her innocence, Fiona had been flattered by his attentions, and it had been several months before she’d realised he was more interested in the distillery than in her.

‘I showed her the video we had taken of the area and she was very impressed,’ Grant continued, ignoring Fiona’s frosty response. She looked away, drawing a deep breath and releasing it with a shudder. She didn’t have the energy or inclination to waste her time on personal issues; he had betrayed her and she knew she could never forgive him. The long, lonely nights of the past six months had strengthened her convictions. She had longed for his return those first few weeks, but then the sheer pain and isolation of being alone had made her realise what a fool she had been. She flicked back a look of impatience and caught the stubborn tilt of his firm jaw. She watched him with increasing irritation as he made himself comfortably at home, rearranging the files on her desk till he had sufficient room. This was still her office, her domain, yet he had taken over with his usual self-assurance, every gesture and action reaffirming the fact that soon it would be his. Fiona wanted to object, but somehow it seemed churlish to mention the fact that he was sitting in her chair in her office. She sat down with a weary resignation and waited for him to speak. Suddenly all the pressures seemed to bear down upon her and she felt very tired. He glanced up at her.

‘How about some coffee?’ he asked casually, a sudden smile brightening his face, and Fiona’s stomach flipped over, despite the armour with which she had surrounded herself.

‘Coffee!’ she repeated, glaring at him.

‘Yes, brown, hot liquid full of caffeine,’ he mocked as he took a sheaf of papers from his case and began to sort through them.

‘I thought you considered our coffee the pits,’ she drawled, imitating his accent.

‘I do, but it’s something I’d best get used to,’ he informed her, before adding, ‘I’m planning on staying.’

‘There’s nothing to stay for—’ began Fiona, her heart thudding as she realised the six months’ separation had obviously not meant the same to him.

‘Fiona!’ His voice was suddenly sharp as if tired of her constant defiance. ‘Make the coffee!’

She glared back at him. This was her company and she was not the office junior! How dared he order her to make coffee? She fumed inwardly. How she disliked the smooth way in which he was managing to manipulate the situation, making her feel insecure. She suffocated her indignation and rage. She would not allow him to annoy her; she would not waste any more emotions on him. She rose gracefully and forced a sweet smile.

‘That’s a great idea! It will refresh us before we settle down to business,’ she said lightly, hoping that gave a little bit more of a firm footing back to her. His sensual mouth twisted into a humourless line at her words, and once again Fiona felt the floor slipping beneath her. ‘White, no sugar?’ she said briskly, denying the effect of his expression. She walked from the room with a graceful sway of her hips, aware that he was watching her, and for some reason that pleased her.

The kettle took an age to boil, and by the time she returned he had rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, loosened his tie and had undone the top button of his shirt. She could just see a few stray dark hairs peeping over his open white collar and felt a sudden weakness. His long legs stretched across the table and he held the telephone under his chin while his long, sensual fingers rapidly flicked through the papers. He inclined his head to the table, indicating where he wanted his coffee placed, and Fiona felt another surge of anger begin to boil inside her.

‘Shall I put your coffee here, sir?’ she said, making a full curtsy.

‘Thank you,’ he mouthed as he continued his conversation on the phone, seemingly unaware of her sarcasm. Damn the arrogance of the man, she seethed as she resumed her seat and sipped at her coffee, trying to feign indifference, though she knew that was impossible.

From the moment she had met him, she had been drawn to him like an innocent, dull moth to the shining brightness of a deadly light; she had still been recovering from the knowledge that Mark had not really cared for her. However, she had grown up a lot in those ten months when she had first been back home, looking after both her grandfather and the distillery. Yet, at twenty years old, she was still no match for a cool sophisticated, mature man like Grant. Fiona leant back, closing her mind to the image of the man before her, and remembering how they first met.

She had rushed home from college the moment she had heard the news about her grandfather, but her initial relief that he was alive soon faded when she realised the extent of his stroke. It had been quite dense, leaving him paralysed down one side and his speech terribly impaired.

She had been so grateful to Andy; he had taken over the running of the company. He had worked for her grandfather for several years and knew the business inside out, but she had never really liked him. She didn’t know why, there was just something about him. But she banished these thoughts from her mind; this was business and she could ill afford flights of fancy.

Andy had constantly reassured Fiona that everything was fine, so she’d had plenty of free time to assist her grandmother, helping with the boarding house and Grandad’s physiotherapy, and the exhausting regime had paid dividends. Grandad was making a remarkable recovery, astonishing everyone with his resilience. It was funny, fate, she acknowledged: it had been her turn to take Grandfather to the day centre but when Kate, the guide who led tours, had not turned up for work at the distillery, Fiona took her place, grateful for the change of scene. She loved taking the tourists around the distillery; she was proud of her heritage and found the whole process of making whisky fascinating. Her natural exuberance was transmitted to the tourists, who always seemed more talkative and questioning when she took them around. Fiona allowed herself a smile as she thought of Grant; he had asked more questions than she had ever thought possible! She could remember that day so clearly, as if it had been branded into her brain. The damp smell of autumn mists was already in the air, and vibrant colours filled the moors as the forests turned from verdant green to a kaleidoscope of crimsons, yellows and browns. At the end of the summer, tourists—mostly families on holiday—had returned for the start of the new school term, leaving only the retired catching the last moments of sunshine, or younger parents with tiny tots still not old enough to attend school. Fiona had hurried them all into the foyer away from the crisp chilling air—she was well aware how the damp could affect old bones, so she had decided to begin the tour inside. It was then that she first saw him and he had immediately started her pulses racing. He had pushed the hood of his dark green waxed jacket from his face, revealing a thick corncoloured mane of hair that fell casually around his deeply tanned face. His tan was not weathered but smooth, and its colour even, making a perfect backdrop for his vivid blue eyes. At first, Fiona imagined he was Swedish; he looked Scandinavian like a Viking warrior of old, and maybe it was some historical instinct that had warned her to beware of him as her pulse increased still further.

‘Hi, I’m Grant.’ He smiled widely and she knew at once he was American.

‘Hello,’ Fee managed to respond. ‘Come inside, I’m just about to begin the tour,’ she said, stepping back to allow him to enter.

‘Thanks. I was going out walking but the weather looks a little…’

‘Yes, yes, it does. I think you were wise not to go. The mists can come down so very quickly, though you do seem properly dressed,’ she remarked, noting his thick navy sweater with an intricate cable pattern which seemed to emphasise the breadth of his muscular chest. The well-worn denim jeans that curved around his firm hips and thighs seemed to fit with an almost indecent snugness, and they were pushed carefully into a pair of ancient, scuffed brown walking boots. Fiona felt herself blush as she realised how closely she was looking at him. She turned her attention to the other tourists, offering a sample of her family’s best whisky to everyone.

‘It has an unusual flavour,’ Grant commented, sipping the amber liquid with appreciation.

‘Indeed it has,’ Fiona said loud enough for everyone to hear. Her attention was directed solely at Grant, as if drawn by some powerful hidden magnet. ‘This is a family distillery; we produce our own Scotch to a family recipe.’ The pride in Fiona’s voice was evident. Grant nodded his approval and Fiona’s heart leapt at his appreciation. A small child pulled eagerly at her tray, nearly causing the glasses to unbalance.

‘Oh, no, you don’t, young lady,’ Grant laughed, lifting the squirming bundle high into the air and tickling the little girl till she crowed with delight, forgetting all about the tray of drinks.

‘Thank you.’ Fiona smiled her gratitude and was awarded the full brilliance of his perfect white teeth. He laughed as he placed the child back safely on to the floor and turned his attention to Fiona.

‘My pleasure. I hate to see good Scotch go to waste.’ He laughed again. Laughter came so easily to him and Fiona found herself responding—it seemed so long since she had smiled. With the worry of Grandfather’s health, the responsibility of the distillery, her doubts about Andrew and the still hidden pain of Mark’s betrayal, laughter had somehow faded from her life. She swallowed a little nervously as she began her wellrehearsed speech and, though she tried to talk to everyone, her eyes constantly strayed in Grant’s direction and fixed on the generous curve of his sensual mouth. She answered all his questions, thinking he was just interested. She should have known then, despite his halo of blond hair and the innocent blueness of his eyes, that he was no angel; now of course she knew him better. She realised he resembled the very devil himself! His interest had been far more than that of a passing tourist.

‘Fiona!’ Grant’s crisp voice barked, shattering all thoughts and making her jump. Her cup rattled in its saucer as her eyes shot open. ‘Are you all right?’ His voice had changed and for a moment she thought there was a note of concern there, but his grim expression soon shattered that illusion.

‘Yes,’ she snapped back, already on the defensive, too aware of him ever to be completely immune. The brand of sexuality he wore was far too lethal. She knew she could never forget him, or forgive him for what he had done. His eyebrows rose and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at her prompt reply, but it faded fast as she passed a hand to her forehead, rubbing at the returned throbbing pain of tension.

‘Headache?’ he asked, getting to his feet with alarming alacrity. Fiona gently nodded her head and then moaned at the movement. ‘Here?’ he questioned, feeling expertly across her neck, fixing on the tip of her spine and beginning a firm but gentle massage. Fiona wanted to object, to pull her body away from his as her shoulders fell comfortably against his chest. His hands moved with rhythmic ease across them, easing the tension of her headache away but arousing her more base instincts.

That’s fine, really,’ she muttered, stiffening against his persuasive touch and moving away. A lazy grin spread across his face at her objection, but he said nothing, returning to the desk with an expressive shrug of his broad shoulders.

‘I’ve been looking over the company records; some seem—’ he paused as if carefully weighing up his next words ‘—some are incomplete.’

‘Incomplete?’ she echoed, not fully understanding what he was saying, but feeling a frisson of alarm rushing down her spine. First fire then ice ran through her body. Grant leant across the table and picked up a buff-coloured file.

‘The last twelve months’ figures just don’t seem to tally,’ he explained, opening the file and running a cursory glance down a bank of figures. Fiona jumped to her feet, indignation rising within her like a huge tidal wave.

‘My God, you’re back on that track, are you?’ she demanded, her face growing pink with anger as she marched over to the desk. She saw his body stiffen, his shoulders straighten at her attack, but she was undaunted. ‘Give it here,’ she said in a clipped tone, snatching the file from his hands. She flicked open the file, her mind working overtime as she surveyed the figures. She was painfully aware he was watching her. The clean scent of him filled her senses, and she struggled to make sense of the mass of numbers.

‘These aren’t our figures,’ she retorted, pushing the file back at Grant in a gesture of contempt. He nodded slowly in agreement, his hair momentarily falling softly on to his face before he swept it back in a gesture of frustration. He rested his head on his fingers and rubbed at his forehead, as he whistled lowly, shaking his head. He sighed audibly before raising his head to meet the frozen look in her eyes.

‘You still don’t get it, do you?’ he asked. ‘Those are my accountants’ figures, achieved by simple mathematics; less creative perhaps than Andrew Farr’s, but I assure you far more accurate,’ he concluded grimly.

‘You’re pathetic,’ stormed Fiona. ‘You’ve had it in for Andrew all along. It’s jealousy, sheer jealousy,’ she bit out, before an iron grip wrapped around her wrist forcing her to be silent. Grant leant across the table, his strength unrelenting. He fixed his icy-blue gaze on her face, as if searching for the truth.

‘I’ve no reason to be jealous of Andrew Farr,’ he asked almost warily, ‘have I?’ He effortlessly pulled her towards him until she was close cnough to catch the familiar scent of sandalwood aftershave.

‘No, no reason,’ she admitted nervously, hating her weakness and despising his strength. Once again he had forced her to reconsider Andrew’s motivation. He released her immediately and she moved away, keeping a safe distance between them. Her breathing was fast and erratic and she wondered if there could be a safe distance from Grant once his formidable temper was aroused. The silence that followed was tangible and the tension between them seemed to rise up like a huge, impenetrable wall.

‘Look; Fee,’ began Grant, reopening the file. ‘Please just look, judge for yourself.’ He tried to sound conciliatory, but there was a firmness in his voice that she instantly recognised and her eyes darted to his face in an attempt to read his poker expression. ‘It’s all here, Fee. My suspicions were correct,’ he added almost impatiently, as she stood rooted to the spot, not attempting to move or show any interest in the file. ‘For God’s sake, Fee!’ he finally snapped, leaping to his feet and slamming his fist down noisily on top of the file. ‘Look at it, will you?’

Fiona raised her eyes to look at him instead. She had half expected this. She had hoped that perhaps he wouldn’t resort to such low tactics, but Andy had warned her he would. For some reason she was disappointed; she had wanted to believe in Grant, somewhere deep within her very being. Despite all the facts to the contrary, she still was holding on to that glimmer of hope.

‘I was expecting this,’ she informed him, trying to keep the pain from her voice and failing. ‘I had been warned you would attempt this sort of tactic—’ she sighed before being interrupted.

‘Tactic?’ Grant echoed as he flicked her a probing glance. ‘What are you talking about? The facts speak for themselves.’

She didn’t reply and, after a short pause that was filled with tension and hostility, he said, ‘All the figures are here.’ His voice was sharp and heavy with sarcasm. He raised his hand in frustration, raking his strong fingers through his golden hair. ‘Why won’t you listen?’ he demanded impatiently.

‘I have listened,’ Fiona returned tartly.

Grant’s brow frowned with displeasure at her tone and his eyes flickered over her thoughtfully.

‘Let me guess,’ he taunted, ‘Andrew Farr suggested I would say the figures were wrong.’

A rush of heat to Fiona’s cheeks caused her to blush and she knew it was pointless to deny his statement. Instead she raised her head and confronted his anger with barely concealed contempt. Her usually soft brown eyes were hard, and sparks of indignation flared within them.

‘Yes, it was Andrew, and he was right, you have questioned the accounts.’ The accusation in her voice was cutting, but Grant’s equilibrium was not shaken in the least. He strode over to the window, allowing the crisp morning air to wash over him, as if losing his temper was a gamble he was not prepared to take. He sank his hands deep into his pockets and gazed out, his eyes seemingly following the natural rise and fall of the surrounding hills.

Finally he spoke, his voice calm and deep. ‘I’ve checked the accounts myself and there are discrepancies—’

‘Rubbish, it’s just another one of your ploys, to make sure I sell at a loss,’ Fiona interrupted sharply. Grant swung around, his eyes flashing warning lights as a dark storm of anger rose in their depths. He glared at her, his jaw stiff and unyielding, and Fiona stepped back as he made a threatening step towards her.

‘There was a time, Grant, when I believed you—’ She paused and shook her head, trying to cast out the bittersweet memories. ‘Look, let’s forget our personal differences; this is business,’ she said tightly, hating herself for the traitorous way her body responded to him.

‘There’s more than business at stake here, Fee, and you know it.’ His voice was rough with intensity.

She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. She had tried the whole time he was away to sort out her feelings; the pain and isolation she had felt had been unbearable, and she had tried to rationalise their whirlwind romance. Now all her theories about being on the rebound had evaporated once he returned and she was with him again.

‘Fee,’ he said more softly, the gentleness of his voice momentarily soothing her. ‘I’m not happy with these figures—’ He stopped when she flashed another look of contempt at him. ‘Look, OK,’ he continued, raising the flat of his palms up to her in a gesture of compromise. ‘You check them,’ he said with a grim finality.

‘I don’t have to; unlike you, I happen to trust Andy,’ she countered obstinately, a small niggling doubt beginning to surface. She dismissed it promptly when she remembered the cautionary words of Andy, warning her that Grant would try to put doubts in her mind. She bristled immediately, defiant and determined to fight on.

‘Trust no one, Fee,’ Grant informed her, obviously sensing her doubt and wanting to build on it.

‘Including you?’ Fiona retorted spitefully, enjoying Grant’s sudden intake of breath at her words. She wanted to hurt him, wanted him to know how it felt to be rejected and betrayed. He stirred quickly at her words, too quick for her to move, and once again she found herself imprisoned by his strong hands. She raised her head to voice her objections, but he caught her off guard and his lips claimed hers. For one brief, magical moment, Fiona allowed herself to respond. The spark of desire he immediately aroused in her caused her to give way. Her soft lips parted and his kiss deepened, and their bodies moulded together like a well-fitted jigsaw. Fiona found herself drowning in the heady depths of desire and she had to fight to regain her sanity. It seemed eternity before her common sense took over. She knew she couldn’t allow this, it wasn’t right. She was aware how weak she was where Grant was concerned and her body would always betray her, respond to him, despite everything. She would be at his mercy and she was sure he would take advantage of the situation. She fought against him, wrenching herself from his arms.

‘Stop that,’ she ordered, her eyes flaring, but her uneven breath betrayed her arousal. ‘This is supposed to be a business meeting.’ Grant watched her with a glimmer of amusement that made his blue eyes shine deeply.

‘Are you annoyed because I kissed you, or because you responded?’ Grant’s lips curled into a devilish grin and Fiona felt compelled to look at him.

‘You had no right to do it,’ she objected crossly, ignoring the arrogant smile that filled his face.

‘I think I had every right,’ he told her, his voice suddenly serious. ‘Or are your kisses just for Andrew now?’ A dangerous edge had entered his tone and Fiona’s eyes darted to his.

‘There’s nothing between me and Andy,’ she flared back, annoyed when he raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘There’s nothing,’ she repeated forcefully.

‘I’m glad,’ he murmured softly, as he stroked the side of her face with a cool brush of his strong hand. Fiona leapt at his electric touch. She had been seeing a lot of Andrew since Grant went away, and she knew there had been times when he had wanted to kiss her but she had never allowed him. She stepped back, a mixture of fear and excitement inside her as Grant strode back to the desk and began to replace the papers, leaving the file on the desk.

‘What’s going on?’ Fiona demanded to know, as a hot jet of panic surged through her. Surely he wasn’t leaving? She wanted the deal to be finalised today, so that at least she knew that the distillery was safe. Grant raised his head, the morning sun catching his hair, making it dazzle with a golden haze.

‘I have been advised not to go ahead with the takeover of this company,’ he said in a detached tone.

Fiona froze at his words; it was all so unreal that she couldn’t take it in. ‘What?’ she managed to splutter, watching him warily as he clicked his case closed. He glanced up at her, his face an expressionless mask.

‘I’m sorry, Fee. With these figures, it’s just not a viable proposition,’ his deep voice drawled. She felt a stab of hostility at his arrogant attitude and her sense of betrayal deepened still further. Now she realised what he was playing at—Andy had been right all along; she should have listened to him, taken his advice, instead of being charmed by this charlatan.

‘If this is an attempt to make me lower the asking price, then forget it,’ she stated, scanning his face for some relaxation. But there was none, he seemed resolute.

There was a flash of anger for a moment, before he said through clenched teeth, ‘No, this is not a feeble attempt to make you lower the price,’ he said scornfully, the disdain in his voice making her cringe inwardly. ‘It is merely the truth. This company is no longer a viable proposition, it’s as simple as that.’

‘You can’t be serious! It’s all you ever wanted,’ Fiona protested, as hot pinheads of tears that pricked the back of her eyes threatened to fall. She was shouting—she could hear her own voice crashing about her ears, but she didn’t care, she was so desperate to understand.

‘It’s not all I ever wanted,’ Grant thundered back at her, his face set. Fiona’s eyes darted to his face and she stared at him, locked into immobility. She stood her ground, determined not to show her true emotions, but her eyes grew soft with sorrow as she felt the world crumbling beneath her feet.