SHE had calmed down somewhat by the time she got home, although she was no less determined to make the Spencers pay for their cold-blooded scheme.
She persuaded Bill, Marilyn’s husband, to deal with the details of her side of Jeff’s will. He was a very good lawyer himself, and he wouldn’t be intimidated by James Seymour or the Spencer family.
With that worry off her mind Callie’s time was free to accept Donald Spencers’ invitation. But if he thought she was going to be an easy conquest he was going to be out of luck. She would make sure he took her to all the most expensive places in town. The Spencer family had angered her, and Donald was going to know all about dating Callie Day!
He might be weak and & little stupid where his parents were concerned, but she had to admire his determination—or maybe it was just fear of his parents? Whatever the season, Donald didn’t object to anything she said or did.
And during the next month she said a lot of wild things, did a lot of wild things, and she made Donald do them with her, no matter how mad they were. And some of them were very extreme. She made him take off his shoes and socks one night, roll up his trousers, and paddle in the fountain with her in Trafalgar Square. Another time she took him to a really weird party, watching him squirm as an extrovert artist tried to seduce him up to her studio. And then there had been the time she made him take her to a football match, watching how awkward he felt at the disgusting language and loud behaviour of some of the rougher spectators.
Donald suffered through it all without demur, even during the modern play Callie insisted she had to see—even though she didn’t understand a word of it! Most of it seemed to have sexual undertones, and she could see Donald becoming more and more uncomfortable by the minute, her decision to leave changed as she made him sit through it to the embarrassing end.
But nothing put him off, and by the end of four weeks she was beginning to tire of the game. The stuffy party he had brought her to tonight was the end as far as she was concerned. When he took her home she intended telling him she didn’t want to see him again.
At least that way she wouldn’t have to suffer through another goodnight kiss! How Donald had reached the age of twenty-eight without even learning how to kiss properly she didn’t know, but somehow he had managed it, and his wet, soggy kisses were totally uninspiring.
The party was at last beginning to warm up. A lot of the older people were leaving, and the younger ones starting to let their hair down a little. Even Donald was dancing rather enthusiastically with a tall, busty blonde, for once not fawning over Callie trying to grant her every wish. When he had time to meet the girl he was really in love with she had no idea, since he had spent most of his evenings with her this last month. Perhaps one day Donald would realise there was more to life than pleasing his parents—especially at twenty-eight!
She took advantage of his preoccupation to absent herself, leaving the noisy party to go into one of the side rooms, to find herself in the peace and tranquillity of a library, its walls lined with books, books her fingers ached to touch.
She looked along the shelves, finding most of the classics, and took down her own particular favourite, leafing through the pages.
‘I see I’m not the only one who needed to escape,’ drawled a husky male voice.
Callie turned almost guiltily, her eyes widening as she looked at the man who had interrupted her solitude—tall, with dark, almost black hair, a rivetingly handsome face, the dark dinner suit perfectly tailored, as was the white hand-made silk shirt. She looked up into darkly grey eyes, and wondered why she hadn’t noticed him at the party earlier—he was hardly the type to be overlooked.
He closed the door behind him, instantly shutting out the noise of the party, and walked across the room with long, relaxed strides, looking at the book in her hand. ‘Jane Eyre,’ he mused. ‘You like the story?’
His voice was deep and well modulated. ‘Yes,’ she blushed her confusion. ‘Have you read it?’
He smiled, instantly looking younger than the mid-thirties she had guessed him to be, his teeth very white against his tanned skin, looking ruggedly attractive this close to rather than handsome. ‘I think everyone should read Jane Eyre at least once,’ he drawled.
Callie held the book in front of her almost defensively, something about this man warning her he was dangerous. ‘Which means you have?’ she persisted.
‘Twice, actually.’
‘So you liked it.’
‘I think Rochester could have been a little kinder to Jane.’ He shrugged. ‘But if he had been perhaps she wouldn’t have fallen for him. You women are reputed to fall for the bastards of life.’
Callie flushed her resentment of such a generalisation. ‘We can’t pick and choose whom we love—neither men nor women. And Mr Rochester wasn’t kind to Jane because he was conscious of his mad wife.’
The man sat down in one of the armchairs, looking very relaxed. ‘If he had been that conscious of her he would have sent her away as soon as he realised he was becoming attracted to her.’
Her mouth twisted. ‘Unfortunately most humans aren’t that self-sacrificing.’
He eyed her curiously for several seconds, obviously liking what he saw. ‘Before we come to blows perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m Logan Carrington,’ he introduced softly.
‘Callie Day,’ she returned stiffly.
‘I’ve upset you,’ he said ruefully. ‘I didn’t mean to. Jane Eyre is a favourite of yours, hmm?’
‘Yes.’ She sighed, beginning to smile at her intensity. ‘Sorry,’ she shrugged, ‘they say you should never get into a discussion about religion or politics, but with me it’s books. Everyone gets something different out of them.’
‘Truce?’
‘Truce.’ She smiled openly now, very attractive in a dress the brown of her eyes, her hair made to look even blonder against its dark colour.
He sat forward to put his hand out to her. ‘Friends?’
She hesitated for only a fraction of a second before placing her hand in his. ‘Friends,’ she agreed huskily.
The touch of his hand against hers was only fleeting, and yet her ringers seemed to tingle from the contact before she hastily thrust her hand behind her back and placed the book back on the shelf. She turned to find him still watching her.
‘Do I have a smut on my nose or something?’ she challenged, not being used to being stared at in this way.
Logan Carrington smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Nothing like that,’ he shook his head. ‘I was just wondering why a beautiful girl like you would shut herself away in here when the party is out there.’
‘Maybe for the same reason you’ve come in here,’ she returned, a glow coming to her cheeks at being called beautiful.
‘I doubt it,’ he grimaced. ‘Unless you have secretary trouble?’
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘I am a secretary.’
Much to Marilyn’s disgust she had kept on with her job, sure that the bubble of her sudden wealth would burst and leave her penniless. She could do without being jobless too. She had been brought up with a sense of values, of having to work for what she had, and it was going to take months, not weeks, to accept that she no longer had to work. Besides, the question of Jeff’s will hadn’t been settled yet, and she didn’t intend spending money she didn’t even have.
‘You are?’ Logan Carrington looked interested.
‘And very happily employed, thank you,’ she told him hastily.
‘Oh.’