Captive Destiny. Anne Mather
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Trace and Kyle, known familiarly as Tryle Transmissions, was bought out by the Kyle family, he no longer made any pretence of his feelings towards his father’s partner’s daughter.
‘Do you have to go back to the shop this afternoon?’
Mrs Ingram was speaking to her, and Emma looked up half guiltily, as if afraid her thoughts were visible for everyone to read.
‘I—beg your pardon? What? Oh, yes. Yes. I promised Gilda I’d take her a sandwich. She’s had no lunch.’
‘Can’t she afford to buy her own sandwiches?’ demanded David testily, pouring more wine into his glass. ‘You aren’t paid to feed your employer as well as yourself, are you?’
‘No,’ agreed Emma, biting her tongue on the desire to tell him that without her salary they couldn’t afford to drink wine at lunchtime either, and Mrs Ingram took up the comment.
‘She really is the most objectionable woman,’ she declared, with a sniff. ‘When I asked her to contribute to our charity fund, she had the nerve to tell me that her taxes alone would feed and clothe half the population of Abingford and she didn’t see why she should contribute when the state had millions of pounds just waiting to be applied for.’
Emma hid a smile. ‘Well, that is true,’ she conceded quietly. ‘People simply won’t claim, and Gilda says she doesn’t see why she should give money to organisations who spend half of it to pay the administratory costs.’
Mrs Ingram’s head went up. ‘I hope you’re not implying, Emma, that my colleagues in the Ladies’ Guild and I use the money we collect for any other purpose than that for which it’s intended.’
‘Oh, no.’ Emma shook her head, assuming an innocent expression. ‘I’m only telling you what Gilda thinks.’
‘Huh!’ Mrs Ingram attacked her steak with more vigour. ‘As I said before, she’s an objectionable woman, and I can’t imagine why David permits you to work for her.’
‘Why David permits …’ Emma was almost driven into retaliation, but just in time she bit back the words. ‘I just do a job, Mrs Ingram,’ she declared evenly. ‘Now, do you want cheesecake or crackers, David?’
To her relief, the topic was dropped, but when she left for the shop later she was aware that her mother-in-law had not given up on it. No doubt she would use this time alone with David to pursue her point, and Emma could only hope that, as in the past, Mrs Ingram would over-reach herself. David could be as perverse as his mother, and if he suspected he was being manipulated, he would retaliate in kind. It had happened before, and both Emma and his mother knew what a precarious game they were playing.
Gilda was busy with a customer when Emma re-entered the antique shop a few minutes later. They were studying a catalogue of Italian ceramics, and Emma removed her coat and picked up her duster to complete the tidying of the shelves she had begun before Jordan’s phone call. She was admiring a display of Victorian miniatures when the doorbell chimed once more, and she turned smilingly to deal with the new customer. But the smile was frozen on her face as she recognised the newcomer. It might be some time since she had seen Jordan Kyle in the flesh, but he was sufficiently newsworthy to warrant the occasional write-up in the local press and because of this she had not been allowed to forget his lean features.
Now, coming face to face with him, she was struck anew by the magnetism he exercised, the powerful influence that had once wrought such havoc in her life. Tall, around six feet, she estimated, with a strong if leanly built body, he looked more like an athlete than a businessman. His legs were long and muscular, and he moved with a litheness that belied his thirty-seven years. He was not handsome, but Emma had long since come to the conclusion that handsome men were rarely attractive to women. Jordan Kyle’s harsh, uncompromising features—the deep-set, hooded eyes, the high cheekbones and roughly set nose, the thin line of his mouth—combined to give his face a hard, almost cruel disposition, and yet when he smiled and displayed uneven white teeth, he had a fascination that was impossible to ignore. And to complete his appearance, his hair was that peculiar shade known as ash-blond, which meant it could look silver in some lights. He wore it short on top, but it grew low down the base of his neck, and Emma knew from experience it was strong and vital to the touch.
All these things were evident to her in those first few seconds when her blood ran cold in her veins and burned like a banner in her cheeks. Jordan Kyle. Coming to see her after all this time. The last she had heard about him, he had been spending several weeks with his father who had lately retired to live in the West Indies, and his tan which looked so unusual against the lightness of his hair was further evidence that the English winter had meant little to him.
‘Hello, Emma,’ he said now, closing the door behind him with a little click. His words attracted Gilda’s attention, and for a brief moment they, too, exchanged glances, then her customer demanded attention and Jordan transferred all his attention to her assistant.
Clearing her throat, Emma managed not to let her smile disappear completely. It was four years since she had actually spoken to Jordan, and then only in passing at a charity ball organised by David’s mother. He had been with someone else then, a girl she couldn’t even remember. All she could remember was going to the ladies’ room and spending fifteen minutes in the toilet gaining control of herself again.
‘Hello, Jordan,’ she responded now, folding her duster meticulously between her fingers. Tightening her lips, she added, in what she hoped was a casual tone: ‘I didn’t know you were interested in antiques.’
‘I’m not.’ Jordan glanced round the cluttered shop with faint contempt. Then he looked at Emma again. ‘You know why I’m here. Is there somewhere we can talk?’
‘This is the showroom,’ replied Emma tautly. ‘Whatever you have to say, it can be said here.’
‘No, it can’t,’ he contradicted, looking beyond her to the door leading into the tiny office at the back of the shop. ‘Can we go in there?’ He gestured towards the office. ‘What I have to say is for your ears alone.’
‘How mysterious!’ Emma tried to be facetious, but it didn’t quite come off. Looking doubtfully at Gilda, she murmured in a low voice: ‘Was it necessary to come to the shop? Why couldn’t you have told me over the telephone?’
Jordan’s sigh was irritable. ‘Look, Emma, I don’t have all day. Are you going to speak to me or aren’t you?’
She licked her dry lips. ‘And if I say no?’
‘I’ll leave,’ he stated grimly, and she knew he would.
‘But what can you have to say that—that’s so important?’ she exclaimed. Then, viewing his uncompromising features, she capitulated. ‘Oh, very well. Come in here.’
Ignoring Gilda’s speculative stare, she led the way into the tiny office at the back which was as cluttered in its way as the shop. Jordan looked about him impatiently as he closed the door, and in the small office his presence was that much more disturbing.
‘My God,’ he said, as she moved round the desk to put it as a physical barrier between them. ‘How do you find anything in this place?’
‘I imagine we manage,’ she replied, gripping the edge of the desk tightly for support. ‘Now, do you mind telling me why you’re here?’
‘Well, as you refused to eat a meal with me, I had no other alternative,’ he responded, and his dark eyes which were such a contrast to the lightness of his hair were suddenly compelling. ‘I wanted to talk to you—to ask your assistance—and I couldn’t do that over a telephone.’
‘To—ask my assistance!’ Emma sat down rather suddenly, as her legs gave out on her. ‘You want my assistance?’ She shook her head. ‘How can I help you?’
Jordan came to the desk and leant upon it, his long-fingered hands, the only artistic thing about him, spread squarely on the polished surface. His nails were always clean, she thought inconsequently, mesmerised by his closeness, by the clean