Runaway Fiancee. Sally Wentworth
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her tone but heard only curiosity. ‘It was—difficult. Your mother married an Argentinian and went to live there. Your father returned to his own country. They couldn’t both have you. And your grandmother is a very strong personality; it’s almost impossible to refuse her anything she sets her mind on.’
‘But they could have, if they’d really wanted to, if they’d cared enough?’
‘It wasn’t that simple, Paige.’
She looked at him for a moment, then gave a slow smile. ‘Life seldom is. Please go on.’
His grey eyes studied her face for a moment, but then Milo said, ‘Your grandmother kept you with her at her home in Lancashire until you finished school, then took you on a long tour of India and Asia that lasted for nearly a year. When you came back to England she brought you down to London to stay, and that was where we began our own relationship.’
‘We had never met before?’ Paige asked in surprise.
‘Yes, we’d met, many times, before your parents split up. But not for some years and not as adult to adult.’
Her eyes widened then grew amused. ‘How old are you?’
‘I’m thirty-two.’
‘And how old am I?’
‘Twenty-one. Nearly twenty-two. Your birthday is next month, on the seventeenth.’
‘And when did this so passionate relationship begin?’
‘You came to London about two years ago.’
With a mocking twist to her lips, Paige shook her head at him. ‘When I was only nineteen? Perhaps I preferred older men—a father figure. Tell me, did I fall head over heels in love with you?’
She was needling him deliberately but he didn’t rise to it, instead saying, ‘Maybe one day you’ll remember.’
Suddenly she was all French again, pouting her lips and crossing her legs as she sat back in her seat. As she did so her legs brushed against Milo’s knees and Paige glanced at him from under her lashes but he didn’t react. ‘Somehow I don’t think so,’ she said shortly. ‘And my loving parents, are they still alive?’
‘Your mother is. She still lives in Argentina.’
‘And does she own part of the company? What did you call it—Chandos and Caine?’
‘Caine and Chandos,’ he corrected her. ‘No, the shares she inherited were all transferred to you when she remarried. Your grandmother insisted on it.’
‘She sounds a formidable old lady.’
‘Yes, she is.’ Milo’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘And not one to whom I would have entrusted the upbringing of a sensitive young girl.’
Paige frowned for a moment, then her eyebrows rose. ‘You mean me? I was a sensitive young girl?’ Her rich laugh rang out, making the other people in the carriage glance round. ‘How quaint.’ Her eyes taunted him. ‘I’m no longer any of those things.’
‘But you are still young.’
She gave a small smile. ‘Oh, no; somehow I think that I’ve become very wise for my years.’ Adding deliberately, ‘And very experienced.’ Seeing his mouth tighten, Paige leaned forward and said on a soft but compelling note, ‘You would do well to forget that girl you talk about, forget her as I have done. Because she no longer exists and you can’t bring her back.’
He met her gaze squarely. ‘I know that. I shall have to get to know you all over again.’
‘But you don’t like what I am.’ It was a positive statement.
‘What makes you think that?’
She sat back, but kept her eyes on his face. ‘You make your disapproval very obvious.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t disapprove of you; I just find the change in you difficult to accept, that’s all.’
‘I expect people change when their circumstances change.’
With a sudden smile, Milo said, ‘Now that is a very wise and experienced remark.’
She gazed at him for a moment, taken aback by the smile, then flicked her eyes away. ‘You didn’t tell me what happened to my father,’ she reminded him.
‘I’m afraid he died. He had a heart attack some years ago.’ Paige merely nodded and he said, ‘It means nothing to you?’
She gave him an irritated look. ‘What do you expect me to do—throw myself down and weep because someone I can’t remember has died? Someone, from what you’ve told me, who more or less abandoned me? Of course it means nothing to me.’
Suddenly they were out of the tunnel and into daylight again. The train slowed for its journey through the Kent countryside and Paige looked out of the window for a few minutes before turning to Milo and saying, ‘Is that it? Is that the sum total of this famous family you were going to tell me about?’
He nodded. ‘That’s about it.’
‘So I’ve a mother, and presumably a stepfather, who live in Argentina. And a grandmother. Is that all?’
‘I believe you have some relations on your father’s side—cousins, that kind of thing—but no one close. And you have aunts and cousins in England on your grandmother’s side of the family. I’m afraid neither of us comes from very productive lines.’
‘When I marry Jean-Louis I intend to have a large family, six children at least,’ she told him provocatively.
‘Have you told him that?’
Smiling, she said, ‘Jean-Louis is a very earthy person. He likes the sun and the open air, he loves light and colour. He’s not like you.’ Her eyes went over him disparagingly. ‘You’re an indoor person, without imagination, grey and colourless.’
To her immense surprise Milo laughed, the first time she’d known him to do so. ‘If you think that then you, too, have got some relearning to do.’
Soon the train pulled into London and they got into the car again. It was only then that Paige asked, ‘Where are we going?’
‘To your flat.’
‘My flat? I have an apartment of my own?’
‘Yes. In Chelsea.’
It turned out to be a garden flat in one of the quiet, tree-lined streets that led down to the River Thames. An old house of dark, weathered brick with a smartly painted black front door. Very respectable, very genteel. As she got out of the car Paige looked at the street and the house with strong distaste. Taking a small bunch of keys from his pocket, Milo unlocked the door.
‘You have a key to my flat?’
He glanced at her. ‘You left your keys behind when you—went away.’
He stood back to let her enter and Paige stepped past him into a hallway. There were two front doors facing her. The one on the left had the letter A and a name-plate holding a card saying ‘Major (Rtd.) and Mrs C.D. Davieson’. The door on the right had the letter B, but the name-plate was empty. After unlocking the latter, Milo again stood back.
Aware that he was watching her, Paige pushed open the door. There was an inner lobby that gave on to a corridor lined with framed nineteenth-century prints. The floor was carpeted and the air was warm. There was no dust on the hall table that stood against the wall, no smell of mustiness, only of beeswax polish. No feeling that the place had been empty and neglected for nearly a year. Slowly she walked to the nearest door and pushed it open. It was a sitting-room, quite large and ornate with an elaborate plasterwork ceiling, and luxuriously decorated in shades of cream and pale green, the carpet thick, the curtains opulently swathed. There was a wooden-framed reproduction three-piece suite, again in pale green, that hardly looked inviting; in fact it looked almost unused. There