She realised her cup was empty and gave a faint sigh. It couldn’t be put off any longer. Resolutely she got up and paid her bill.
Outside, it was still snowing. Her coat wasn’t really designed as a protection against winter weather, and she shivered a little as she hurried in the direction of Kyle’s offices.
She knew roughly where they were and, given that she was familiar with the nature of his work from the many newspaper articles published on him, she shouldn’t have been surprised by the carefully restored Georgian façade of the building, nor the discretion of the small brass plate outside, announcing that within were the offices of Bennett Enterprises Limited.
Even in his choice of name for his company Kyle had to be different, she thought wryly. Any other young man starting out as a speculative builder and developer would have chosen something like Bennett Builders Limited, but not Kyle; even then he had seen his building company only as a cornerstone on which to build and expand.
Now his company was known as one of the most forward-thinking and responsible building firms around. His architects were called in whenever important restoration work was required, his expertise sought when the planners were at their wits’ end on how to appease both the conservationists and the needs of an ever-growing population.
Recently he had branched out into sheltered accommodation for retired people, and by all accounts was proving as successful in that field as he had been in so many others.
At twenty-nine, he had a reputation for being one of the country’s shrewdest and richest entrepreneurs.
For almost a moment Heather dithered, longing to turn tail and run, and yet held there by a stubborn desire to do what she knew was the right thing. This was her chance to make amends. To show that finally she had grown up and that the lessons learned from the months of counselling she had undergone after her attempted suicide had brought some return. That finally she had come to accept that love could be shared; that Kyle never had and never could be a threat to her own place in her parents’ hearts.
In the end, it was the cold that drove her inside the building; that and the fact that she was attracting curious looks from busy passers-by.
Inside, her heels tapped noisily on the black and white marble-tiled floor; so noisily, in fact, that she was rather surprised that every one of the five doors leading off the rectangular entrance hall did not immediately open.
On either side of the hallway, between the two sets of doors, stood elegant console tables with matching mirrors hung over them. The Georgian period had always been a favourite of hers, and Heather recognised the value of the antique mirrors almost at a glance.
Attractive dried floral displays, in keeping with the winter season, decorated the tables, but it was only when she headed rather nervously for the stairs that one of the doors actually opened.
She must, she realised, as a uniformed commissionaire politely enquired her business, having triggered off some sort of silent alarm.
She told him rather hesitantly that she had come to see Kyle Bennett, and then felt ridiculously foolish when she was forced to admit she was here without making an appointment. Plainly, that was simply not the sort of thing one did when approaching the head of Bennett Enterprises, and she felt a tiny surge of well-remembered resentment start up inside her.
She almost turned to go, but then remembered why she had come here in the first place. Almost in desperation, she said hurriedly, ‘Look, if I could write a note, could it be sent up to Ky—to Mr Bennett?’
That small slip in almost using Kyle’s Christian name was making the commissionaire eye her even more suspiciously, and she stiffened when she realised that the man suspected that she was one of Kyle’s cast-off girlfriends.
Even as a teenager he’d seemed to have had a fatal fascination that attracted members of her sex, and since he had become successful the gossip columns had regularly mentioned his name, connecting it with a variety of pretty socialites and would-be models-cum-actresses.
Surely one glance at her had been enough to inform the commissionaire that she was scarcely the type to attract the great Kyle Bennett, Heather thought bitterly.
‘Mr Bennett knows my … parents,’ she told him coldly. ‘If I could just write that note …’
‘In here, miss.’
The commissionaire obviously believed her, because his manner relaxed slightly as he showed her into one of the empty downstairs rooms.
Obviously a waiting-room of sorts, it was decorated with watered-silk wall hangings, the Georgian panels painted in a chinoiserie design of birds and branches. Two deep-cushioned settees were covered in the same pastel watered silk as the walls, a cheerful open fire burned in what Heather suspected must be the original Adam grate, and the commissionaire escorted her over to a pretty early Victorian writing-desk, fully equipped with notepaper and pens.
She wrote quickly, before she could change her mind, feeling the desperation and dislike building up inside her as she did so. When she had finished, she studied what she had written for a second.
‘Kyle, I need to talk to you about Mum and Dad. Please don’t ignore this note.’
And she sighed it with her full name.
She sealed it before she could give way to any second thoughts, and handed it to the waiting man.
Once he had gone she was seized by a wave of dread, so strong that she was actually half-way to the door before she realised what she was doing. She couldn’t leave now. She had to see this thing through. What was she frightened of? Making a fool of herself in front of Kyle, laying herself open to his mockery and contempt? Was her own pride really so important that it mattered more to her than her father’s life?
Instantly ashamed, she went back into the room. The very worst thing Kyle could do would be to refuse to see her. It didn’t matter how much he humiliated her, as long as he agreed to pay for her father’s operation.
For the first time she contemplated what was likely to happen if her mission failed. The thought made her skin go cold, and she started to shiver.
The commissionaire, walking in and seeing her, frowned and asked anxiously, ‘Are you all right, miss?’
‘Yes, yes … I’m fine.’ Heather gave him a distracted smile. She was so tensed up that her body was aching with the strain she was imposing on it.
‘Mr Bennett said to show you up.’
Was she imagining that new tinge of respect in the man’s voice? Plainly the man thought she had been given something approaching an accolade, but she could not allow herself to relax yet. All she had achieved was one tiny step forward.
The lift was hidden away discreetly, behind another of the doors. As it slid smoothly upwards, Heather pressed a protesting hand to her taut stomach. She was only just beginning to realise the true meaning of the phrase ‘butterflies in the tummy’. The ones in hers seemed to be involved in a mad, frantic dance.
The lift stopped and, following the commissionaire’s directions, she walked down the elegantly decorated corridor to its solitary door.
It was opened before she reached it, and the young woman who motioned her in made Heather all too aware of the shortcomings in her own face and figure. This girl could have posed from the front cover of Vogue and drawn gasps of awe from everyone who saw her.
She was a perfect, frosted Nordic blonde of the type normally found in sophisticated American cities, cool and very sure of herself, her glance sweeping dismissively over Heather’s