‘It would suit me to move into Plover Park for a time.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m due for a break, but I also have plans to open a branch office in Byron Bay. I could combine the two and—’ he smiled faintly ‘—keep an eye on my half of the deal at the same time.’
This time Lee knocked over her coffee cup, although fortunately it was empty. Byron Bay was half an hour’s drive from Plover Park.
‘For the almost ten months left until we’re allowed to dispose of Plover Park?’ she asked weakly.
He righted her cup and poured her some more coffee. ‘No, for as long as it takes. Long enough to quash any doubts that we are at least giving Cyril’s dreams for us a go,’ he said with a touch of irony.
‘I…I don’t know what to say.’
‘Then let me point out the alternative, Lee. Legal battles which I would not be able to conduct myself since I would be subject to litigation as well as you. Even if we won—and there’s a grey area here that could be open to interpretation—it would be a long, uncomfortable road.’
This silenced Lee effectively and she tried to sort it all out in her mind. Then she frowned mightily and spoke—unwisely, as it happened. ‘This all seems to dovetail together so well I’m…suspicious!’
Damien lay back in his chair and studied her comprehensively.
Lee fiddled with her scarf and contrived in every way known to her to project unconcern at the scrutiny she was being subjected to. But it was hard going. Because, more than any man she had ever met, Damien Moore was capable of injecting an element of speculation into the way he studied you as a woman, out of those fine dark eyes. Speculation as to what you’d be like in bed, to put it bluntly, she told herself. But it was a curiously disinterested speculation and she hated it!
However, she immediately reminded herself, as she sipped her coffee and tried to look soignée—in spirit if not in grooming—that sadly there was more to the reason she hated it than pure feminine outrage.
There was guilt, for example. Because almost from the moment she’d first met him a certain thought had crossed her mind from time to time—would this dark, clever man, with his wide shoulders, long, strong limbs, his good looks, be dynamite in bed or what?
Guilt also because she was never able to remain unmoved by that speculative study. Even if she managed to hide it, her pulses always started to hammer, mental images of the two of them together plagued her, and it required an almost superhuman effort not to look all hot and bothered.
Then there had been the stage when she’d been sure she’d fallen in love with him, only to have to disabuse herself of the theory—which she had, she assured herself!—because there had never been a glimmer of a similar emotion in him. Sure, he did occasionally look right through her clothes, but only in that speculative way. And how could you go on fancying yourself in love with a man who had proposed a purely platonic marriage?
She grimaced unwittingly. She might try to take a light approach in her thoughts, but underneath there was still a painful little scar to do with Damien Moore. True, the acquisition of Plover Park had helped to take her mind away from him…but now this!
‘Suspicious how?’ he asked at last.
She looked frustrated. ‘I…I don’t know. It’s just too neat and natty.’
‘I am only proposing that we share the same roof, not the same bed, if that’s your concern,’ he drawled.
She shot him a fiery glance and wondered what he’d do if he knew just why that offended her.
Then she flinched visibly as, almost as if he had read her thoughts, he added, ‘Well, not necessarily the same bed—unless you’d like to rethink that bit?’
‘No way, José!’ were the words that sprang to her lips.
He laughed softly, but said, ‘I do admire your pithy turn of phrase, Lee. You never leave anyone in doubt as to your emotions.’
She pinched her lips together, but inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.
‘You are also…’ he paused, then shrugged ‘…very refreshing at times.’ His dark gaze drifted to the waitress who had simpered over him, and became tinged with irony.
She frowned faintly as she wondered what he was thinking, then shook her head. ‘Assuming I agree to this—but there’s a very good chance I won’t!—when would you want to move in?’
‘In about two weeks.’
‘So we’d have to…do it…before then.’
‘We would have to…“do it”…before then,’ he agreed. ‘It wouldn’t be akin to going to the electric chair, however.’
‘I didn’t say that.’ She gestured helplessly. ‘I just…I need a bit of time to think about it!’
‘Is there such a lot to think about, Lee?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Have I not represented your best interests up until now?’
She stared at him uncertainly, and it crossed her mind to wonder whether he had any idea what her view of her best interests was—not to allow herself to build up dangerous dreams around this man! How much harder would that be if she was married to him, even platonically?
‘I…’ She stopped.
He looked at his watch and swore beneath his breath—but not, as it turned out, on account of her. ‘I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m just so damn busy at the moment. I have to go—but do think about it, Lee.’
‘It’s not as if there isn’t enough room,’ she said, then looked shocked.
He grinned. ‘At Plover Park? True. But never let it be said I rushed you into anything.’ He stood up. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I really have to go. Why don’t you order something more to your taste? I’ll leave an imprint of my credit card with them. Please let me know your decision in due course,’ he added formally.
Lee stared up at him. ‘OK. Bye!’
He hesitated for a moment, then, ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, Lee Westwood. Goodbye.’ He turned away.
She watched his retreating back. It would be fair to say, she thought darkly, that he cut a swathe through the female population of the café—and the waitress he had eyed earlier tripped over her feet in her eagerness to be the one to deal with his bill.
It would also be fair to say he had it all: an aura of power and wealth, a hint of arrogance, a touch of damning uninterest in the ripples he was creating in many a womanly heart. But it was, curiously, no consolation, she brooded, to know that she was not alone in finding Damien Moore irresistible.
She reached for her coffee cup, then jumped as a voice beside her said, ‘Having lunch with him now and then is not going to do it, you know.’ And a man slid into the seat Damien had vacated.
‘Who on earth are you and what do you mean?’ she asked haughtily.
‘And good day to you too, Miss Westwood,’ he returned. ‘I happen to be Cyril Delaney’s brother—Cosmo.’
‘What?’ Lee’s eyes nearly popped out on stalks, then she realised there was a definite resemblance, although this man’s blue eyes were unpleasantly shifty and knowing. ‘You’re the one who’s contesting the will?’
‘The same,’ he agreed.
She gasped. ‘Are you having me followed? Is that why you’re here?’
‘Not at all,’ he denied. ‘This is pure coincidence. I recognised Damien Moore and put two and two together. I also thought it might be a timely opportunity to make it known to you that I intend to fight the bequest my brother was conned into making to you and Moore every inch of the way.’ He