‘Are you married?’ he queried. ‘You are a Mrs, and yet you don’t wear a ring. Your husband must be a very liberated man.’
‘I—was married,’ she said slowly, the normal evasion she used when speaking of her past automatically shaping her answer.
‘Ah! No doubt why you speak with such fervour on the subject of child custody.’
He had assumed, as most people tended to, that her marriage had ended through divorce, rather than death.
His eyes narrowed with interest as he continued. ‘A fervour which goes against that very——’ and the eyes flicked now to the severe lines of her suit ‘—cool exterior.’ He smiled at her, a smile which could conquer all. ‘I trust I haven’t opened up any old wounds. Do you have children, Mrs Carson?’
She put her pen down on top of the folder, and gave him a chilly smile. The chilliest in her repertoire. ‘Mr Masterton,’ she said, her slightly condescending manner not lost on him, ‘fascinating as I’m sure you find it, my personal life really has nothing to do with why you’re here, does it? So perhaps if we could turn to a few salient points about the size of your prospective law firm ...?’
He didn’t like that, she realised. Not at all. He was not a man women would usually put down like that, not unless they had been hurt by him, of course—and he was ignorant of the fact that she belonged to that no doubt large band of women who had been hurt by him. And he must, she decided, that fiercely protective instinct coming to the fore once more—he must remain ignorant of the fact. For Peter’s sake.
She asked her questions, and he answered them, but there was an underlying tension which crackled in the air like electricity for the rest of the interview, and she saw that brief look of puzzlement cross his face once again.
You must make an effort, a voice urged silently. Stop antagonising him—for she recognised that he could be a dangerous adversary if aroused. He’s your client, the voice insisted, so drop the spiky manner. Ooze charm and he’ll probably run a mile. But she also knew that she wasn’t going to be able to keep up this dangerous farce for much longer.
She straightened the pile of papers on her desk, and looked at him expectantly—a polite if somewhat prim smile on her lips. ‘Well, Mr Masterton——’ And with an effort she increased the wattage of the smile. ‘That all seems to be fairly conclusive—I’ll have my secretary type up details for you first thing.’ And she need hardly meet with him again after today, thank God. Most of their communication would be by letter, maybe the occasional phone call.
Her words were intended as the precursor to a conclusion of the meeting. He knew it and she knew it, but he remained unmoving. Watchful, yet relaxed—a man totally at ease with the world, and his highly privileged place in it. She could see his forehead creased in concentration, as if he was trying to work out something in his head. Was he sensitive enough to have picked up anything from her behaviour?
In an effort to distract him, she spoke again. ‘Was there anything else you wanted, Mr Masterton? Anything you wanted to ask me?’
‘Yes.’
His next words filled her with both elation and horror.
‘Have dinner with me tonight.’
The laugh she gave was hoarse, and her voice cracked with the effort of it. The irony was not lost on her. For years she would have given everything she owned for just such an invitation, but now, in view of what he’d just said on the subject of custody—the reality of it was far too threatening even to contemplate. She put her hand over her breastbone. ‘Dinner?’
Still watching her closely, he smiled. But it was a cold smile, a smile which stayed light years away from his eyes. ‘Don’t look so shocked,’ he murmured. ‘Surely a man has asked you out to dinner before? You’ve been married too, so why sit there, your hand over your heart, as if I’ve suggested something which is in some way indecent?’
She gave him a chilly smile. ‘You’re a client,’ she pointed out.
He shrugged. ‘Nothing in the rule book to say we can’t eat together. Let’s call it a business dinner.’
‘But I thought we’d discussed everything we ought to—so how can it be?’
The dark-featured face remained disturbingly enigmatic. ‘You’re quite right of course, Mrs Carson. I’d like to have dinner with you because you intrigue me.’
She stood up, her heart beating like a piston. ‘Oh?’
‘Mmm. You do. Very much.’ He stood up also. ‘Your manner towards me has been remarkable, to say the least. Your secretary was taken aback, too—so you’re obviously acting out of character. When people behave out of character there’s always a reason. And I wonder why. Is it me?’
‘You mean you’re amazed that I haven’t responded to your abundant charm?’ she said angrily.
The eyes narrowed, and he smiled. ‘I haven’t used it yet,’ he murmured. ‘Do you want me to?’
She could have kicked herself. ‘I want you to let me get off home now,’ she said baldly. She badly needed to get him out of here, before she did or said something which would have dire repercussions for both her, and Peter.
‘Sure.’ He glanced at his watch on his wrist. ‘It’s getting late. Do you have a date?’
The perfect solution! ‘I—yes. Yes I do.’
‘Then I’ll see you to the lift,’ he said smoothly.
Helpless, trapped—for she how could she pretend her eagerness to be away and then linger around the office?—she reluctantly picked up her briefcase. ‘Thank you.’
The carpeted walk to the executive lift seemed like miles, the silence which hung in the air between them not an easy one, yet he, at least, showed no desire to break it, while she could think of nothing neutral to say. He stood aside to let her into the lift first, and she saw, to her horror, that he intended to accompany her! Alone, in the tiny confines of a lift—where even with people you knew well the atmosphere was always strained as you all stared mutely at the flashing lights. But alone with Riccardo—she corrected herself—alone with Rick Masterton ...
The lift doors slid open, and she went in first, putting her hand out immediately to press ‘ground’ with one plain, unvarnished fingernail, but he had beaten her to it, his finger firmly on the ‘hold’ button as he stared down at her, his face shadowed so that the light eyes appeared darkly fathomless as they searched her face as if in pursuit of the answer to a question which only she knew.
She shivered; nerves, fear and excitement—yes, excitement—combined to make her slender body tremble. For no matter how much her logical mind told her that after everything that had happened she should no longer be affected in any way by this man, her body knew differently. Her body betrayed her, as it had betrayed her so long ago. Her reaction to this man had always been disturbingly unique, and some things, it seemed, never changed.
Mute, and mere feet away from him, she saw the sharp planes and angles of that ruggedly handsome face, and some soft yearning deep at the very heart of her cried out its request. Tell him, said the voice. This is the man you once loved—so tell him about his son. Tell him about Peter. And she trembled again. But then she saw him give a tiny nod of his head, as though her helpless tremble in response to his proximity was merely par for the course.
‘The signals you’re sending out are delightfully and intriguingly mixed,’ he murmured. ‘You seem unable to quite decide whether to tell me to go to hell or to give in to what you really want to