‘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