Читать книгу Charade Of The Heart - Кэтти Уильямс, CATHY WILLIAMS, Cathy Williams - Страница 6

BETH TRIED TO SUMMON UP the feeling of bravado she had had the previous day when she had resolutely decided that Marcos could handle his own damned personal life.

But sitting here, in front of her computer, her eyes flitting warily across to the connecting door, it was difficult.

She had already been subjected to his cold anger and it was something she had no desire to experience again.

She frowned at the file she had been poring over a minute before, but the words were just a jumble of black and white. Eventually she gave up.

She could, she thought, leave for home. It was already half-past five. She chewed her lip, glanced across at the door again and remained undecidedly rooted to her chair for another half an hour.

This is ridiculous, she finally decided. Hovering about here like some sort of criminal waiting to stand before the judge.

She stacked her papers away and unhooked her coat from the coat-stand. Now that she had decided to leave, her feet couldn’t move fast enough, and by the time she made it to the ground floor she was positively churning with tension.

She only managed to regain some of her equilibrium on the Underground back to the flat, but even when she was safely indoors she found that she was plagued by the same sense of apprehension.

More alarmingly, her mind was fizzing over with questions that she knew shouldn’t concern her at all.

Was that the type of woman he fancied? Tall and blonde and with the sort of impeccable good looks that spoke of hours painstakingly spent in front of the mirror? Angela Fordyce, she found herself thinking uncharitably, didn’t look as though her brain had ever taxed itself with anything more complicated than whether her colour scheme for the day matched.

Not that it was any concern of hers anyway. The man was infinitely dislikeable, someone who constantly seemed to rub her up the wrong way. He was welcome to his following of leggy blondes. Peculiar though it might seen, they probably suited him. Men whose work lives ran on constant pressure no doubt found the company of brainless bimbos relaxing. They could unwind without the tiring obligation of actually having to respond to any manner of intelligent conversation.

She switched on the television, laughing at her line of thought. Am I really so bitchy? she wondered. She had never been before.

She had changed into a pair of tight jeans and a loose sweater and she had a sudden, unwelcome image of herself standing next to Angela Fordyce, her short bob hardly the most glamorous hairstyle in the world, her face bereft of any make-up, her feet inelegantly clad in a pair of thick woollen socks to stave off the cold.

With a little frown she shoved the image to the back of her mind and settled down to follow the detective movie. She liked detective movies. Something about them appealed to the logical processes in her brain. That was probably why she enjoyed the mathematical precision of her accountancy course. There was no room for emotive flights in an accountancy course. Things made sense with it. Two and two always added up to four.

Her mother once told her that it was a trait that she must have inherited from her father. He had possessed a fine mind, a mind that had enjoyed the precision of logic.

Laura, she had said, took after her. They were both volatile and emotional. Two and two, with a generous helping of imagination, sometimes added up to five.

Why, Beth thought pensively, had she suddenly remembered that? Was it because her cool, reasonable approach to life had recently been less reliable? Odd.

She refocused her attention on the small screen and was once again absorbed in various premutations of theory being volunteered by the chief detective, when there was a sharp knocking on the door.

She reluctantly got up, wondering who on earth it could be. Were there such things as door-to-door salesmen in London? Or maybe it was Katie. She had been meaning to get in touch with Katie, but hadn’t found the time so far.

She pulled open the door and her body tensed immediately.

‘Oh,’ she said, simply because she couldn’t find anything better to say, ‘it’s you.’

‘Surprised?’ Marcos walked past her into the small lounge, making no apology for his appearance even though it was after ten o’clock.

He stood in the centre of the room and stared with blatant curiosity around him.

Beth felt her hackles begin to rise.

‘I thought only doctors paid home visits,’ she said pointedly, shutting the door behind her. She would have preferred to leave it open, so that he could get the message that she really didn’t want him in the flat, but it was simply too cold outside for that.

Now that the door was shut, she had a sudden feeling of choking claustrophobia.

‘Funny,’ he mused, ‘I would have expected your flat to have more of an imprint of your personality on it. It looks as though you only use it as a place to sleep.’

‘Have you come here for something specific?’ Beth asked, reasserting her presence. She moved to the chair furthest away from him and sat primly on it, leaning forward slightly, her arms folded across her chest.

She was aware of her heart beating quickly and heavily. What was he doing here? He had obviously just come from work, he was still wearing his suit, although that didn’t exactly speak volumes, did it? She had left him at the office with Angela; who knows what they had got up to? He might have finished with her, but men, she knew, were very susceptible to a beautiful and willing woman, even a beautiful and willing woman who had gone past her sell-by date.

‘Why did you let her into the office?’ He looked at her through half-closed eyes.

‘What?’

‘You heard. Angela. Why did you let her into my office when I expressly told you not to?’

Oh, so this is it, she thought. He couldn’t even have the courtesy to wait until the morning before venting his anger.

She felt a stab of indignation. Some of that bravado that had eluded her earlier on was returning.

‘I could hardly put her under civil arrest just because she wanted to see you, could I?’

‘You could have told her that I was out,’ he said forcefully. ‘Or ill, or in a meeting. The list of excuses is endless. You’ve always managed to handle that sort of situation before.’

‘Have I indeed?’ So it was one of her unofficial duties, and one which her sister had happily complied with. Well, she had no intention of following suit.