“Of course you have!” said Miranda, still trying to recover from the shock of his touch and his nearness. She understood exactly now what made him what he was. He even gave off the scent of crisp, newly minted money.
The chauffeur stepped out of the Rolls, shut the door, then made off across the thick, springy grass to a bench beneath one of the trees. If Gil Roberts was wondering what the hell this was all about he knew better than to show it. He believed Corin implicitly when he said he didn’t know the girl. He had been with the family for over twelve years, since Corin Rylance had been a boy. He had enormous liking and respect for him. Unlike a couple of his cousins, Corin was no playboy. He did not fool around with young girls, however enchanting and sexy. Maybe it had something to do with one of his cousins? A bit of blackmail, even? She had better not try it. Not on the Rylances.
“So?” Corin turned on her, his tone hard and edgy. “First of all, what’s your name? You obviously know mine.”
“Who doesn’t?” she retorted, not insolently, but with some irony. “It’s Miri Thornton. That’s Miranda Thornton.”
“Amazing—Miranda! Of course it would be.” He didn’t mask the sarcasm.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She stared at him with involuntary fascination. She was experiencing the weirdest feeling there was no one else in the world but the two of them. Imagine! Was she a total fool? She almost forgot what she was about with those dark eyes on her. God, he was handsome. The glossies were right. Up close and personal, his aura was so compelling it had her near gasping. It wasn’t simply the good looks, it was the force field that surrounded him. It had picked her up with a vengeance. For the first time she felt intimidation.
“You’re a smart girl,” he was saying.
“Not a little twit?”
He ignored that. “Well educated, obviously. Miranda—Prospero’s daughter?”
Deliberately she opened her eyes wide. “Got it in one. The Tempest.You know your Shakespeare. From whence did Corin come?” she asked with mock sweetness. “Coriolanus? Noble Caius Marcus?”
“Cut it out.” His tone was terse. There was a decided glitter in his eyes, so dark a brown they were almost black. “I don’t have time for this. What’s it all about? You have exactly five minutes.”
“Give me one,” she retorted smartly, hoping she looked a whole lot more in control of herself than she was. “May I have my bag?”
He frowned at her. “What is it you want to show me?” He didn’t oblige, but drew the tote bag onto his lap. Gil would have checked carefully, but there were always surprises in life. This extraordinary young woman didn’t exactly look unstable or wired. He could see the high intelligence in her face, the keenness of her turquoise-green regard. She was nothing like all the well-connected young women he knew. The pressure was on him from his father to pick out a suitable bride. Annette Atwood was highly suitable. But did he honestly believe in love?
“Photographs.” Miranda’s mind was momentarily distracted while she focused on his hands. He had beautifully shaped hands. Hands were important to her.
“That’s nice!” He didn’t hide the mockery.
“I’d hold the nice until you have a look at them,” she warned. “Don’t think for one minute it’s porn. Good old Gil would have spotted that, and I don’t deal in such things. I was very well brought up. Go on—pull them out. They won’t bite you.”
“The cheek of you!” he gritted. “You know what I’d really like to do with you?” He was uncomfortably aware his body was coiled taut. Why? She was pint-sized. No physical threat at all. What did he want to do with her? Why was he giving her the time of day? Actually, he didn’t want to think it through. She was so young, with her life in front of her. Despite himself he felt a disturbing level of attraction.
“Throw me out onto the street?” she was suggesting. “You could do it easily.”
“Maybe I will at some point.” He withdrew several photographs from a side pocket in her well-worn bag. They looked old, faded, turning up at the edges. He narrowed his dark eyes. “What exactly are these? Photographs of Mummy when she was a girl?” He was being facetious. Until he saw what he had in his hand.
God, no! This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t her. The girl in the photographs didn’t just bear a strong resemblance to his stepmother. She was Leila—unless she had an identical twin.
“How clever of you, Corin,” Miranda said, making an effort to conceal her own upset. “They’re photographs of my mother when she was a year younger than I am now.”
His expression turned daunting for so young a man. Shades of the father, Miranda supposed. “Just be quiet for a moment,” he ordered.
Miranda knew when it was time to obey. She and Corin Rylance had polarised positions in life. She was a nobody. He was on the highest rung of society. Heir to a great fortune. He could cause her a lot of grief.
“So what’s your game?” He shot her a steely glance, the expression in his fine eyes in no way benevolent.
“No game.” She turned up her palms. “I’m deadly serious. We can keep this between the two of us, if you like. I’m certain from what I know of my birth mother—your stepmother—that she hasn’t confided her sordid little story to another living soul. Least of all your father.”
“You want money?” The stunning features drew tight with contempt.
“I need money,” she corrected.
“Aaah! A big difference.” The tone was withering.
“I think you can spare it.”
“Do you, now?” His tone all but bit into her soft flesh. “So I’m to look after you indefinitely? Is that the plan? Well, let me help you out here, Miranda, as you’re barely out of school. Blackmail is a very serious crime. I could turn you over to the police this afternoon. It would only take one call.”
“Sure. I’ve risked that,” she admitted. “But you won’t be doing your family any favours, Corin. Don’t think I’m not ashamed to have to ask you. I have to. My mother—your stepmother, your father’s wife—owes me. I can’t go to her. I loathe and despise her. She abandoned me when I was only a few weeks old.”
“You can prove it?” His voice was harsh with unsuppressed emotion. “Or is this some highly imaginative ploy to make money?” The flaw in that was he could well see Leila doing such a thing. The only person Leila cared about was herself. Not his father. Although his father, business giant that he was, was in sexual thrall to her.
“I’m not stupid,” Miranda said. “I’m not a liar or a con artist. Of course I can.” She had to swallow hard on a sudden rush of tears. “I was brought up by my grandparents—my mother’s parents—believing I was theirs. A change of life baby. Both of them are now dead. My grandmother very recently. She told me the truth on her deathbed. She wanted to make a clean breast of it. The last years of her life were terrible. She died of cancer.”
His expression softened at the very real grief he saw in the depths of her crystalline eyes. “Miranda, I’m sorry, but your mother must have had a reason for doing what she did. That’s if these photographs are of my stepmother. People do have doubles in life.” Even as he said it he knew it was Leila.
“You know in your bones they are,” Miranda told him bleakly. “I even look a teeny bit like her, don’t you think?”
“Not really, no. Maybe the point to the chin—although Leila’s is less pronounced.”
“So