Читать книгу Dangerous Entanglement - SUSANNE MCCARTHY - Страница 7

‘THERE’S a Land Rover coming this way—the same one that went past an hour ago.’ Annette stood up straight, shading her eyes with her hand as she peered along the dusty road. ‘I wonder who it is?’

Joanna barely glanced around as she checked the balance on the block and tackle they had rigged above the tomb entrance. ‘I’ve no idea,’ she responded with a careful lack of interest. It had been a week since her unfortunate encounter with Alex Marshall, but she had known it wouldn’t be long before he was back.

Of course, it might not be him in the Land Rover, but there wasn’t much reason for anyone else to be driving along that rough track through the desert—it didn’t lead anywhere but to an old oasis, long deserted since the water had dried up.

‘There’s two of them,’ Annette announced. ‘I think one of them’s Alex Marshall himself!’

There was a lilt of excited anticipation in her friend’s voice, and Joanna felt an odd little stab of something she didn’t care to put a name to. If Annette should succeed where she had failed in persuading him to delay the start of his operations, it would be all to the good.

‘He’s going to stop.’ Annette swiftly brushed the dust from her shorts, and pushed her hair back tidily from her face. ‘At least it’s nice of him to say hello.’

Joanna snorted derisively, refusing to leave her task. If Annette chose to make the effort to be pleasant to the arrogant Mr Marshall, that was up to her—all she hoped was that she would retain enough common sense not to let that smooth charm turn her head; she had no confidence at all that he would have any scruples about taking advantage of her youth and innocence to entertain himself.

She took the rope, and wrapped it around her hands, and began to pull. She had loaded the trolley a little more than some of the others, and it was maybe a little too heavy for her to lift on her own, without Annette to help, but there was a certain vicious satisfaction in meeting the physical challenge. Gritting her teeth, she felt it begin to budge.

It was just an odd prickle of awareness that warned her that he was watching her. She did her best to ignore it, but it would have taken a stronger will than she possessed to resist the temptation to slant just one covert glance in the direction of the Land Rover.

He sat resting his arms across the steering-wheel, a faint smile curving that cynical mouth as he responded to Annette’s flirtatious advances. He was wearing those dark sunglasses again, so it was impossible to be sure of exactly which way he was looking—and she certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of thinking it bothered her in the slightest. Turning him an aloof shoulder, she continued hauling up the sack of rubble.

She had managed to raise the heavy trolley to the top of the wooden ramp they had rigged at the entrance to the tomb, to make it easier to tip the rubble out into the wheelbarrow, when she sensed that he had come up behind her. He leaned casually against the rock wall at the entrance to the tomb, regarding her with a faintly mocking smile. ‘Isn’t that a bit too heavy for you?’ he enquired, deliberately provocative.

She returned his look with a frosty glare. ‘Not at all,’ she responded, tying up the rope and manoeuvering the wheelbarrow into place. The front-panel of the trolley was designed to lift out, allowing the contents to pour out easily.

He laughed softly. ‘You’re a very independent lady, aren’t you?’ he taunted.

‘Very.’ The wheelbarrow was awkward to manage, but she’d be damned if she’d concede, with him standing there watching her. Somehow she managed to trundle it over to the dump and tip out the rubble, struggling to ignore him; but it wasn’t easy—she could feel the heat of his gaze with every move she made.

There had been a time, a long time ago, when she might have been flattered by that sort of interest from such an attractive man. Brought up to believe that a woman’s role was to be pretty and pleasing, and not to threaten the fragile male ego in any way, she had seen marriage as the only goal a woman needed in life. She had taken her university degree simply as a way of passing the time, and her father had been delighted when she had married one of his brightest young protégés.

Real life had come as a rude awakening. Happy only to be helping her husband, she had been merely puzzled at first to find that she was the one doing most of the research, while he took all the credit. It had dawned on her only slowly that she was being used to advance his career, but with that realisation had come the stirring of her own ambition.

Paul hadn’t liked it, of course, when she had started to assert a little independence; he had done all he could to keep her in what he saw as her place—he had even sunk so low as to try to persuade her to have a child, and when she had refused he had called her an unfeminine bitch. And then he had compounded the humiliation by starting an affair with one of her oldest friends.

The divorce had been painful, but at least she was older now, and wiser—too wise to fall for a man like Alex Marshall. Her defences had been erected with care. The first of them was her deliberate neglect of her appearance—which made it all the more disconcerting that he seemed not to have noticed that her hair was such a mess, her clothes old and work-worn. If the newspapers were anything to go by, he usually went for the sleek, well-groomed sort—models and actresses, mostly. But she sensed that he was the kind of man who would always have an eye for a woman, even if she was dressed in a sack.

He watched her walk back from the tip, trundling the barrow. ‘How’s it going?’ he enquired. ‘Found anything interesting yet?’

Joanna slanted him a suspicious glance from behind her sunglasses. The remark seemed casual enough, as though he was merely making conversation—except that she doubted Alex Marshall ever made casual conversation without having some ulterior motive. He was probably concerned that if she came across something really valuable the Egyptian government might change its priorities and allow her to continue the dig.

‘We’re still clearing the passage into the burial-chamber,’ she returned warily. ‘It’ll be at least a week before we can get through.’

‘I checked with your friend Mr Makram from the Department of Antiquities,’ he informed her, a definite hint of steel underlying his bland tone. ‘He confirmed that your licence was only granted on the condition that you vacate the site as soon as I declare it unsafe.’

‘I’m perfectly well aware of that,’ she responded with icy dignity, all her attention on unravelling the rope, which had somehow got itself tangled around the pulley. Damn—the thing would be just a fraction too high for her to reach! She balanced herself somewhat precariously across the tomb entrance, stretching up on tiptoe, all too acutely aware that her T-shirt, which admittedly had seen better days, had parted company with the waistband of her jeans, permitting him a tantalising glimpse of her slim, suntanned midriff.

He came over, reaching up easily and freeing the rope. Again she felt that sudden sense of vulnerability as he brushed against her, and she breathed the musky male scent of his skin. She stepped back, struggling to control the ragged beating of her heart.

‘Th…thank you,’ she managed, her voice sounding oddly unsteady to her own ears.

‘Don’t mention it…’

There was a strange huskiness in his tone, as if he too had been affected by that fleeting touch. She lifted her eyes to look up at him and found him looking down at her. Something was weaving a spell around them, holding them both in a kind of thrall…

‘Where are you staying?’ he enquired softly.

All of a sudden red lights and alarm-bells started going off frantically inside her head; that question, in her experience, had all too frequently been the prelude to a request for a date. Instinctively she retreated on to the defensive. ‘Why do you want to know?’ she countered jaggedly.

At once that smile took on a sardonic twist—whatever she had seen, or thought she had seen, was gone. ‘Simply out of concern for your safety,’ he returned drily. ‘I wouldn’t like to think you’d be out here after dark. I’ll be moving my men out here over the next couple of weeks, and while I can guarantee that they’ll be kept too busy during the day to even think about a woman, once that whistle blows their time’s their own.’

She glared up at him in angry defiance, her hands on her hips. ‘Are you trying to intimidate me, Mr Marshall?’ she challenged.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Ms Holloway,’ he returned, placing a mocking emphasis on the title she had insisted on. ‘I was simply making you aware of the situation. There’s more than one reason why this site may be considered unsafe for you.’

‘Thank you,’ she responded tartly. ‘I’ll try and remember that.’

‘I would if I were you.’ Now his voice held an unmistakable warning. ‘I don’t like people trying to stand in my way.’

‘So I’ve heard.’ She allowed a sardonic edge to creep into her own voice. ‘Whoever they are.’

‘Oh?’ He arched one dark eyebrow in mocking enquiry, knowing exactly what she meant. ‘You’ve taken an interest in my past career?’

‘Who could miss it?’ she retorted with cool disdain. ‘You seem to have a flair for publicity.’

‘Not intentionally. And you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers.’

‘Oh? You mean it’s all a pack of lies?’

He laughed without humour. ‘Well, not quite,’ he conceded. ‘Let’s just say the tabloid version tends to be somewhat economical with the facts.’

She slanted him a sceptical glance. Maybe that was true, to some extent; but there was no mistaking his arrogance, or his ruthlessness—it was written into every line of that hard-boned, aquiline face. A small shiver ran through her. He was the kind of man who would get what he wanted—whatever he wanted. And he wouldn’t be too particular about his methods.

She shrugged her slender shoulders in a gesture of indifference, turning her attention to setting up the trolley ready to bring up another load of rubble. ‘Anyway, it’s really no concern of mine…’

‘Ah, there you are!’

Joanna turned, startled, as Annette appeared, a fairhaired young man in tow—the one who had been in the Land Rover with Alex. Until that moment, she had completely forgotten that they were there.

‘Sorry to have been so long,’ Annette added, blithely unaware of any tension between the other two. ‘I was just showing Greg the Nomarch’s tomb. Greg, this is Joanna. Joanna—Greg Taylor.’

Joanna found herself shaking hands politely, murmuring some sort of greeting.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Annette added, oddly breathless, ‘I’ve suggested that Greg and Alex might like to drop by and have dinner with us tonight. That’s all right with you, isn’t it?’

The words were casual enough, but there was a glow in Annette’s brown eyes as she glanced up at the young man by her side that hinted that it was very important indeed that she should agree. And he seemed equally smitten, smiling down at her as if she were the embodiment of all his dreams.

So that was the way the river was running! Neither of them had wasted much time, Joanna reflected, with a wry twist of amusement. It looked like a classic case of love at first sight. But it did place her in something of a quandary. The last thing she wanted was to have Alex Marshall come to dinner, but how could she possibly stand in the way of two such love-birds?

‘Of course it’s all right,’ she forced out, her smile rather brittle. ‘So long as they don’t mind what they get—it’s my turn to cook.’

‘Oh…No, it’s all right—I’ll cook,’ Annette offered quickly, her cheeks a pretty shade of pink. ‘I wouldn’t want to give you the extra work.’

Joanna interpreted this very astutely as Annette’s understandable desire to show off her excellent cooking skills. She laughed with dry humour. ‘All right—I’m more than happy to leave it to you.’

Annette’s eyes signalled her thanks, but her manner towards Greg was breezy. ‘Well, we’ll see you tonight, then. We usually work here till quite late, so we don’t eat till about nine. Will that be OK?’

‘Yes, of course. Er…it will, won’t it, Alex?’

The older man shrugged his wide shoulders in a gesture of acceptance. ‘Oh, I think we can manage it,’ he confirmed lightly, the incipient smile that lingered at the corners of his mouth indicating that he was mildly amused by what was going on. ‘Thank you for the invitation.’

Annette smiled up at him a little apprehensively; it was clear that, in spite of her earlier boldness, she found him rather intimidating. Which was probably just as well, Joanna reflected drily; he’d eat her for breakfast.

As the other couple moved away, Alex turned to her. ‘I hope it isn’t too much trouble for you?’ he enquired just a shade too solicitously—he knew how much of an effort it was going to cost her to sit through this meal.

‘Of course not,’ she returned, the hint of frost in her tone intended to warn him that even if the other two were hovering on the brink of romance, it changed nothing between them.

But he merely smiled with mocking humour. ‘Then I shall look forward to it,’ he murmured, impeccably polite. He held out his hand to her. ‘Until tonight.’

Joanna hesitated, her heart suddenly fluttering in alarm at the thought of allowing those strong, sensitive fingers to enfold her own. But if she avoided the challenge, he would have scored some kind of victory. So she kept the touch fleeting, drawing back before he had time to capture her.

‘Until tonight,’ she concurred.

With a farewell nod, he swung himself into the Land Rover. ‘Come on, Greg, we’d better get going—we’ve got a ferry to catch.’

The younger man had some difficulty tearing himself away, but with a last wave he too climbed into the Land Rover, and it disappeared down the road in a swirl of yellow dust. As soon as it was out of sight, Annette gave a little skip of joy, dancing in a circle.

‘Oh, Jo…I Isn’t he gorgeous’? You do like him, don’t you?’

Joanna smiled wryly. ‘He seems very nice,’ she agreed, trying not to sound too cynical. ‘And he’s certainly keen on you.’

‘Do you really think so?’ Annette’s brown eyes betrayed all the soaring leap of her emotions. ‘You’re not just saying that?’

Joanna gave her friend a playful hug. ‘You’d have to be blind not to see it.’ She felt a faint twinge of envy, recalling how she had once been so young and eager for life—before life had taught her some hard lessons.

‘I had to invite both of them.’ Annette added earnestly. ‘It would have looked much too obvious just to invite Greg by himself. I didn’t want him to think I was too forward. You didn’t mind, did you?’

Joanna laughed, struggling to keep her grip on her sense of humour. ‘Mind?’ she responded, feeling rather as if she was drowning. ‘Why on earth should I mind?’

‘Oh…Is that all you’ve got to wear?’

Annette had spoken impulsively, and now she was trying to smile to soften the impact of her words. But Joanna was defiant. ‘Of course—what’s wrong with it?’ she challenged, a hint of belligerence in her voice as she surveyed her own reflection in the chipped mirror screwed to the back of the door.

She had chosen, from the rather limited selection in her wardrobe, a plain white cotton shirt, cut like a man’s, and a pair of loose brown cord trousers. She had tied her hair back at the nape of her neck with a green Paisleyprint scarf, and her only concession to ornamentation was a loose, quilted waistcoat and a silver-buckled belt.

It was a deliberately unfeminine outfit—unlike Annette’s swirling Indian-print skirt and pretty embroidered top. But then Annette would look dainty and feminine whatever she wore. And anyway, Joanna didn’t have anyone to impress.

‘It’s just…I thought…’ Poor Annette was embarrassed, and Joanna hugged her, laughing teasingly.

‘You’re the one to shine tonight,’ she reminded her. ‘They’re not coming to see me.’

Annette glanced up at her, frowning slightly. ‘I don’t know,’ she mused. ‘It struck me that Alex was more than a little interested in you.’

‘I doubt it.’ Joanna responded drily. ‘I’m not exactly his type—he goes for raving beauties.’

‘Oh, but…If only you’d make a little bit of effort…’ Annette began to protest. But Joanna cut her off with a forceful shake of her head.

‘No, thank you,’ she insisted. ‘It just leads to complications.’

A shadow of sympathy darkened Annette’s sparkling eyes. ‘Oh, Joanna—I wish…If only you could meet someone you really liked. Not all men are like your exhusband, you know.’

‘Oh?’ Joanna chuckled teasingly. ‘You’re speaking from wide experience here, are you?’

Annette giggled. ‘No, of course not. But you know, I never thought I’d meet anyone like Greg.’

‘I’ve no doubt he’s quite unique.’ Joanna conceded, with a hint of sardonic humour. ‘Unfortunately I’m finding that with every passing year I’m getting even more picky.’

‘Oh, come on.’ Annette protested indignantly. ‘You talking as if you’re about a hundred! You’re not even thirty yet!

‘It’s only another three months.’ Joanna smiled, wryly conscious of how much older she felt. ‘But even so, I can’t see any man matching up to what I want.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Annette.

‘Oh…’ Joanna tipped her head on one side, musing. ‘He’d have to have the sense of humour of Victor Borge, and the brains of Steven Hawking, and be as kind and caring as Bob Geldof…and as good-looking as Kevin Costner!’

Annette chuckled, her eyes dancing. ‘You’re not asking for much!’

‘See what I mean?’ Joanna countered.

‘But there are some men like that,’ Annette insisted, earnestly romantic, and then blushed a becoming shade of pink.

Joanna slanted her a teasing glance. ‘Like Greg, for instance?’ she enquired.

Annette blushed even deeper. ‘Well…’

‘Annie, you’ve only known him for ten minutes, at the outside,’ Joanna reminded her with gentle concern.

‘I know, but…’ Annette’s fine eyes took on a dreamy look. ‘How long does it take?’

Joanna smiled wryly. ‘Oh, about ten minutes,’ she acknowledged, reflecting how easily she could have done the same, if bitter experience hadn’t taught her to be more cautious. ‘But just the same, take it slowly,’ she warned anxiously. ‘You don’t know anything about him—I’d hate to see you get hurt.’

Annette’s soft mouth trembled slightly, betraying how very vulnerable she was. ‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘But…’ The sound of a Land Rover pulling up outside sent all other thoughts spinning from her brain, and she rushed over to the window. ‘It’s him!’ Love had thrown her into a panic. ‘Do I look all right?’ she pleaded, running back to the mirror to smooth her hair and her skirt, and fidget with the neckline of her pretty blouse. ‘Oh…I’d better go and check on the dinner—will you let them in?’

‘Of course I will.’ Joanna smiled her reassurance. ‘And don’t worry—you look gorgeous. If he hasn’t fallen in love with you already, it won’t take him long.’

She had barely finished speaking when there was a rap on the door. Annette squeaked in alarm, and dived into the kitchen; Joanna was outwardly rather more casual as she strolled across the room, though her own instincts were urging her to hide too. But she had to survive this evening—for Annette’s sake. She could still remember what it was like to be young and in love—though it seemed like a long time ago now.

Pausing to steady her nerves with a slow, deep breath, she pulled open the door. Greg was on the doorstep, his eyes alight with an eager expectancy that changed to an almost ludicrous disappointment when he saw Joanna standing there instead of Annette.

‘Oh…Hello…How are you?’ He was far too nice a young man to forget his manners completely, and his open smile won Joanna’s heart; it was so totally obvious that he was every bit as besotted as Annette.

‘I’m fine. Come on in,’ she invited, taking pity on him. ‘Annie’s in the kitchen, checking on the dinner.’

‘Oh…Well, perhaps I should…just go and see if she needs a hand, then, shall I?’ be suggested earnestly.

‘Good idea,’ she agreed, tongue in cheek, noting with satisfaction the signs of the effort he had made to spruce himself up for this evening—a slight redness beneath his chin where he had shaved for the second time, a betraying pleat in his shirt where he had ironed it rather inexpertly.

He shot her a grateful grin, and darted across the room—leaving her alone to face the tall man who had walked in behind him.

‘Good evening,’ she managed, just the slightest trace of stiffness in her voice.

‘Good evening.’ That hard mouth was curved into a wry smile, acknowledging the position they both found themselves in, as gooseberries to the other couple.

He cast a brief glance around, and she followed his eyes, trying to see the tiny flat as he would see it. Close to the centre of town, in the heart of the tourist bazaar, it was above a narrow Aladdin’s cave of a shop that sold everything from T-shirts printed with meaningless hieroglyphics to beautiful hand-engraved glass hubble-bubble pipes and copper tea-trays.

It was far from being a palace, though it was clean and comfortable enough for their needs. There were just two rooms, one of which they used as a bedroom, the other as a study, cluttered with books and papers and dusty finds from the tomb site waiting to be properly catalogued. The kitchen was little bigger than a cupboard, with an ancient gas stove and a huge old stone sink, and an occasional problem with scorpions for which they kept a jam-jar and a piece of cardboard ever ready.

The best feature was the wide balcony at the back, with a spectacular view over the floodlit ruins of Luxor Temple to the wide sweep of the Nile; Annette was trying to grow geraniums out there, not with any great deal of success. Tonight she had spread a red and white-checked tablecloth over the weathered wooden table, and they had pillaged one of the odd chairs from the study to make up enough to sit on.

‘Nice place you’ve got here.’

‘Thank you.’ She returned him a sardonic look, knowing that the remark was mere politeness.

‘Oh, by the way, we brought along a couple of bottles of wine.’ He held it out to her. ‘White—Greg brought red, to be on the safe side.’

‘Fine—thank you.’

She glanced fleetingly at the bottle, recognising the label. It was a very good burgundy—a little extravagant to eat with such a scratch meal, perhaps, but then Alex Marshall looked like the kind of man who would expect a good wine whatever he was eating. Maybe it was just as well he’d brought his own, she reflected with a crisp touch of irony—the anonymous bottle of plonk they had bought from the shopkeeper downstairs had probably been standing around in the simmering Egyptian heat for the past six months, and would taste more like vinegar than anything else.

Alex strolled across the room, and out on to the balcony, standing balanced with his feet a little apart, his hands deep in the pockets of his khaki trousers, his wide shoulders square against the sky. ‘Nice view,’ he accorded casually.

‘Yes.’

Joanna spared a glance for the brooding ruins of the temple, and the tranquil river beyond, glittering darkly beneath the desert moon. If she had been a romantic, she would have said there was something almost magical about the scene…But fortunately she had learned to control such flights of fancy a long time ago.

Well, if this was going to be the height of their conversation, it didn’t bode particularly well for the evening ahead, she mused to herself as she moved across to the table, sitting down and folding her hands together on the cloth to stop them fidgeting.

Alex slanted her a smile of wry amusement. ‘Have you managed to maintain any other topic of conversation this afternoon?’ he enquired, nodding his head in the general direction of the kitchen.

Joanna glanced at him warily, not sure if an admission would be betraying Annette’s confidence. But since he was being so frank, maybe she could afford to be too. ‘Not for very long,’ she admitted. ‘Love’s young dream, eh?’

He lifted one dark eyebrow in quizzical amusement. ‘You sound a little cynical,’ he remarked.

She shrugged evasively, glancing away. ‘Oh, maybe,’ she conceded. ‘I suppose I’ve been around once too often.’

‘Only once?’ he enquired with a trace of ironic laughter.

‘Once was enough.’ She hoped her effort to sound light-hearted about it had come off, though she suspected’he was far too perceptive to be deceived.

With a casual movement he hooked out a chair, and sat down at the far end of the table. ‘You’ve been married?’ he asked with a gentleness that surprised her a little.

‘Once,’ she managed.

‘And divorced?’

‘Three years ago.’

An awkward silence fell again. Joanna was already regretting that she had told him even that much about herself—she had intended to keep an impersonal distance between them. But there was something about this man that was very disruptive to her hard-won peace of mind; and there was no way she could pietend that the way her heartbeat was racing at this moment was due to claustrophobia.

But to her relief, he chose to change the subject. ‘Shall we make a start on the wine?’ he suggested, reaching for the bottle.

‘Oh…Don’t you think we ought to wait for the others?’ she suggested, her voice a little unsteady.

From the kitchen came the sound of merry laughter. ‘If we wait for them, we could be waiting all night,’ he remarked with perspicacity. He pulled a heavy-duty penknife from his pocket, and opened a corkscrew from among the various useful attachments folded into it. ‘Be prepared,’ he mocked himself mildly.

Joanna’s lips quirked into a smile. ‘You were a boy scout?’ she enquired, daring to tease him a little.

He grinned, that hard face suddenly almost boyish. ‘A long time ago.’

She propped her elbow on the table, resting her chin on her cupped hand, her blue eyes dancing. ‘I can’t imagine it,’ she mused. ‘Did you wear shorts and a woggle?’

Dark eyes twinkled with amusement at her across the table. ‘Of course.’ He took her glass and filled it. ‘What shall we drink to?’ he enquired, a lilt of light humour in his voice. ‘Young love? Or wisdom and maturity?’

‘Oh, the latter, I think,’ she asserted wryly. ‘It lasts much longer.’

He laughed in ironic agreement. ‘Unfortunately, you’re probably right.’

Joanna sat back in her seat, enjoying the rich, distinctive flavour of the wine. A few years in the wood had given it a mature subtlety that she found very pleasing, a smooth sweetness that lingered on the tongue, deeply satisfying.

It was a romantic evening, she acknowledged to herself. A slight breeze was rustling the leaves of the palm-trees along the riverbank, cooling the lingering warmth in the air. The sky was a velvet black, spangled with stars, and the water was smooth and dark, disturbed only by a few clumps of water-hyacinth that floated slowly downstream on the current. In the distance, music was playing—there must be a dance on board one of the cruise-boats moored at the ferry-stage.

‘So, what happened with your marriage?’ Alex enquired with the kind of sympathy that could only come from someone who had trodden the same rocky path.

‘Oh…’ She shrugged her slim shoulders in a gesture intended to convey a measure of indifference. ‘The usual, I suppose. We were probably too young. It was fun for a while, but we were heading in different directions. Unfortunately the person he chose to head off with was my best friend at the time.’

‘I see.’

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of laughter from the kitchen. ‘What about you?’ she asked after a moment.

He swirled the wine around in his glass. ‘Remarkably similar, as a matter of fact. Only in my case, it was my brother.’

‘Oh…’ She shifted under the weight of a heavy discomfort. Was that the brother he had displaced from the family firm? Had that been his revenge? But those were hardly the sort of questions she could ask him.

But he went on without a prompt. ‘Like you, we were rather too young—I was twenty-three, she was twenty-one. And I had to be away a good deal of the time—I suppose in a way it was only natural for her to turn to my brother; he was a couple of years older than me, being groomed by my father to take his place as chair of the company. And they had similar tastes,’ he added drily. ‘Expensive cars, expensive clothes…’

She sipped her wine, her eyes studying that darkly handsome face. The only light on the balcony was the glow spilling out from the sitting-room—Annette had put a couple of candles ready in glasses, but they hadn’t been lit yet. But the shadows did nothing to soften the arrogant lines of his features—if anything they lent him an almost…sinister air.

‘But then…you became chairman instead, didn’t you?’ she enquired diffidently.

He nodded, a hint of hardness around his mouth. ‘That’s right,’ he confirmed. ‘Unfortunately, between them, my father and my brother were making quite a mess of things, so I had the board elect me instead. Then I bought them out.’

That brief, ruthless explanation sent a chill scudding down Joanna’s spine. From the newspaper accounts, it had been shortly after his wife had left him for his brother that he had ousted both him and their father from the company. Whatever his rationalisations, the implication was clear—it had been an act of pure revenge.

She had been a fool to let the wine and the moonlight lull her into a dangerously unguarded mood, she chided herself warningly—she ought to have known better. This was a man who got what he wanted, and damn the consequences for anyone else. It would be wise not to let herself forget that, not for a second.