CHAPTER TWO
‘WHAT about your things?’ Ben asked, sipping his tea warily.
‘Things?’
‘You know—all the stuff you left at the flat. Your clothes, the children’s clothes and equipment, your personal bits and pieces. When do you want to go and pick them up?’
‘I can’t,’ she told him flatly. ‘Oscar won’t let me have them; he said so.’
Ben’s mouth tightened and he dragged an impatient hand through his close-cropped hair, ruffling it yet again. ‘You need your nursery equipment. The children need continuity—not Kit, particularly, but Missy. She needs her familiar toys and clothes around her. You need your clothes—you can’t wear that pair of trousers for ever. And what about all the personal stuff? You must want that.’
Liv shrugged and buttered another piece of toast. Want them or not, it was beyond her to go back to the flat and demand that Oscar give her the things. ‘Could you give me an advance on my salary? I can go and buy something second hand—’
‘While Oscar sits on all your things? What’s the point? What does he need them for?’
‘Spite? A weapon? A lever, in case he decides he wants me back?’ She bit into the toast, a late lunch because she hadn’t got round to dealing with it after her rather strange morning, and glanced up at Ben.
He was looking thoughtful and rather serious. ‘Would you go?’ he asked. ‘Back to Oscar—would you go? Do you want to?’
‘No way,’ she said firmly. ‘Absolutely not. There is nothing Oscar can do that would entice me back, and anyway, he doesn’t want us. He only wanted me while everyone could remember my name and I was a cover girl on the glossies. He doesn’t give a damn now. I told you that.’
‘Yes, you did,’ he said softly, and drained his tea.
‘I have to go out,’ he went on. ‘Will you be OK? I can let you have a car—I’ve got a little runabout I use if I have to park at an airport or the station—less nickable than the Mercedes. You’re welcome to use it, and there’s a remote control unit in it for the garage door and the gate. The keys are hanging up there on the board.’
She followed his finger and nodded. ‘Thank you. I could go to the shops and buy food for supper—oh. I haven’t got the baby seats.’
‘We’ll sort that out soon. If you need to go out ring my cleaning lady. She’s very obliging and she babysits for my sisters. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Mrs Greer—her number’s on the board. Now, money,’ he went on. ‘I’d better give you a cashpoint card for my account—are you sure I can trust you with it?’ he teased, but it hurt. Oscar vetted her credit card bills, queried her bank account and dished out housekeeping as if he were pulling his own teeth. He was only ever extravagant if it was her money, but that was long gone.
‘Liv, I was joking,’ he said softly, and his large, firm hand came out and enveloped hers, giving her a comforting squeeze. ‘Buy whatever you need—if there’s something you have to have today, get it. We can shop for all the stuff the children need tomorrow, so long as you’ve got enough to get by till then.’
‘Don’t you have to be at work?’ she asked worriedly. ‘I’ve messed up your night, now I’m messing up your day.’
‘I work from home a lot—I’ve got computer links to the office via the fax and email, and anyway, I employ good staff. If I want to take a day off, I can.’ He stood up. ‘Take care. I’ll be in touch. I’ll have my mobile with me—ring if you need me.’
‘Where are you going?’ she asked before she could stop herself, and then hated herself for sounding so clingy and wet.
‘London—last-minute business meeting. I won’t be late. Don’t worry about cooking; we’ll pick something up when I get back. Just feed Missy. If you raid the kitchen, I’m sure you’ll find something for her.’
He bent over and dropped a kiss on her cheek, just as she turned her head, and his lips brushed hers.
It was the lightest touch, the merest whisper of a kiss, but something happened inside her that had her staring at the door long after he’d gone through it to the garage and disappeared through the gates and up the quiet, tree-lined road.
She lifted her hand and laid her fingers flat against her lips, feeling them thoughtfully. She could still feel the imprint—could feel the warmth, the texture of his lips, firm yet soft, supple, tantalising. How strange, that a kiss from Ben could make her feel so—
What? Alive? Aware?
Cherished…?
Ben pulled into the underground car park, spoke to the security guard, slipped him a couple of notes and glided into the visitor’s spot the man pointed to.
The lift was waiting, and he went up the three floors and emerged into a carpeted foyer. A leggy blonde beamed at him and unravelled her limbs, tugging her skirt seductively. ‘Can I help you?’ she purred.
‘I’d like to see Oscar Harding, please.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
Ben dug out his most manipulative smile and shared it with the ditzy woman. ‘I’m sure he’ll be willing to see me—could you be a darling and tell him I’m here? It’s Ben Warriner.’
She picked up the phone, and Ben scanned the doors around the foyer. None of them had Oscar’s name on, but he would stake his life that the right door would have a plate on it announcing his importance. Oscar would never let it go unremarked, so it must be further away, along the corridor perhaps.
He turned his attention back to the one-sided conversation. ‘A Mr Warriner’s here to see you, Mr Harding—Ben Warriner? He said you’d want to see him—oh. Right. I’ll tell him that.’
She cradled the phone and looked up with an awkward smile. He would hazard a guess Oscar had said something unprintable, and she was obviously unskilled in this form of diplomatic brush-off. ‘I’m afraid he’s tied up for the rest of the day,’ she lied, her eyes not quite meeting his. ‘He said to make an appointment, if you don’t mind.’
‘Unfortunately I do,’ Ben said smoothly. ‘I’ve come a long way, I’ll see him now. Which room is he in?’
Her eyes flicked involuntarily towards the corridor, and she looked even more uncomfortable. ‘Oh—no, you can’t. I’m sorry, he won’t see you, Mr Warriner, not without an appointment. He doesn’t see anyone—’
‘I think you’ll find he will.’ He strode down the corridor, leaving the girl calling after him and frantically reaching for the phone. A pair of double doors blocked the corridor, and he palmed them out of the way and scanned the doors.
Bingo. Bold as brass and writ large, as he’d expected— ‘OSCAR HARDING, MANAGING DIRECTOR’.
He turned the handle and thrust the door open, just as Oscar rose from behind his desk.
‘Throwing your weight around, Warriner, and upsetting my staff?’
Ben smiled grimly, scanning the desk and noting the photographs of Liv and the children strategically placed to reflect well on him. ‘My apologies. I wanted a word,’ he told him. ‘You’ve been refusing my calls, Oscar, making things difficult. I’ve been trying to get you all day.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Aren’t we all? I’ve had a few distractions in the last twenty-four hours, though—three, to be exact. It’s made it a little difficult to concentrate.’
‘I had a feeling she’d come to you,’ Oscar said lazily. ‘She always did run to Uncle Ben when things got hot.’
‘Hot? I would say things got stone-cold, Oscar—not hot. So, are you going