Carole Mortimer Romance Collection. Carole Mortimer
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quite wrong,’ she told Lyon coolly now. ‘I often wear jewellery; you’ve just never met me in the right setting to see me wearing it.’ Even as she said it, Silke winced, remembering all too vividly—as she was sure Lyon did!—the circumstances in which they had first met; she had been wearing very little on that occasion, and certainly no jewellery.
Lyon looked at her thoughtfully, grey eyes narrowed. ‘Then perhaps I should rectify that,’ he finally said slowly.
Silke gave him a startled look. ‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged those broad shoulders. ‘It seems I can do little to stop this wedding between my uncle and your mother—so perhaps the two of us should have dinner together this evening to celebrate their marriage.’
Silke looked at him suspiciously; why had he suddenly changed from opposing the marriage to suggesting they go out and celebrate it? He was suddenly being altogether too pleasant—and Silke distrusted this mood even more than she did his outright objectionable one.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so—’
‘Frightened, Silke?’ he taunted softly.
She frowned at the suggestion. ‘Of what?’
‘Me,’ he derided, brows raised mockingly.
And suddenly she was—of the fact that he realised how physically vulnerable she was towards him. And why shouldn’t he? She had hardly beaten him off with a stick on the occasions he had taken her into his arms and kissed her!
Both her hands were beneath the desktop now—to hide the fact that they were shaking. First James, and now this man; it was too much in one day!
She forced herself to meet his gaze unflinchingly. ‘I’m not frightened of you, Lyon.’ Her voice was steady too, determinedly so.
He gave an acknowledging nod of his head, his mouth quirked mockingly. ‘In that case—’ he stood up in one fluid movement ‘—I take it you have no objection to joining me for dinner this evening? I’ll pick you up—’
‘Now just a minute,’ Silke cut in hastily. ‘I’m not frightened of you, Lyon—why on earth should I be?’ she added with impatient dismissal. ‘But neither do I want to have dinner with you, tonight or at any other time,’ she said exasperatedly.
He towered over her, looking down at her, those dark brows still mockingly raised. ‘Careful, Silke,’ he taunted. ‘You’re starting to sound like a woman who protests too much! Now I suggest—’
‘That must be a novelty for you!’ she snapped impatiently.
‘—that I call for you at your flat at seven-thirty,’ he continued as if she hadn’t made the interruption. ‘That way we’ll have time for a drink before dinner. Unless you intend being at your mother’s apartment? You seem to spend as much time there as you do at your own home,’ he added drily.
‘How do you—?’ Silke broke off abruptly, glaring at him. ‘Of course, your report on my mother. Or was it just on my mother?’ she suddenly realised warily. My God, he wouldn’t have had her investigated too, would he? What a stupid question; of course he would—this man was arrogant enough to do anything he wanted to do! Maybe she hadn’t been so wrong about his lingering gaze on her left hand earlier, after all...
Lyon calmly met her gaze. ‘Seven-thirty, Silke,’ he repeated smoothly. ‘At your own or your mother’s apartment?’
‘I told you,’ she snapped, completely flustered by her racing thoughts as to what his report had told him about her. ‘Neither!’ She glared up at him.
He bent forward, his face only inches from hers now as he leant over the desk. ‘I may—regrettably—have lost one battle today, Silke.’ His breath softly stirred her wispy blonde fringe. ‘I have no intention of losing this one too,’ he added grimly.
As she doubted he actually intended losing the war; she had no doubts whatsoever that Henry’s and her mother’s battle with him was far from over. Lyon was just retreating slightly in order to rally his troops. And Silke didn’t want to be caught in the firing line!
‘I’m busy tonight, Lyon,’ she told him firmly—and every other night as far as this man was concerned. He was far too dangerous for her peace of mind!
‘Cancel it,’ he instructed arrogantly.
She gasped. ‘I—’
‘I’ll be at your mother’s apartment at seven-thirty, Silke.’ He walked over to the door. ‘We can discuss your jewellery designs over dinner.’
As carrots went it was far from subtle; but then Lyon Buchanan had never been subtle where she was concerned. She doubted he was ever subtle with anyone; he didn’t need to be, was far too powerful ever to need to be. But Silke wasn’t interested in anything he had to say about her jewellery designs—if indeed that was what he actually wanted to talk about, which she doubted; no doubt he still believed she knew where his uncle and her mother were!—because she could never work for this man. Never!
And she didn’t want him coming to her mother’s apartment at seven-thirty, either; what if her mother hadn’t rung by then and happened to ring once Lyon had arrived to pick her up? God, no, she didn’t want that!
‘My designs are all at my flat—’
‘Then I’ll call for you there,’ he nodded, opening the door. ‘Seven-thirty,’ he repeated as if to a backward child, before striding arrogantly from the office.
Silke was left sitting behind her mother’s desk opening and closing her mouth like a floundering fish. She had been about to tell him that her designs were all at her flat but that she had no intention of having dinner with him anyway. But he hadn’t let her finish. Had railroaded over her objections. As he seemed to do with everyone, she realised, as she saw Jackie sitting behind her desk with a similarly dazed expression on her face as she watched Lyon’s departure.
Jackie turned her head slowly, and the two women looked at each other for several long seconds, both looking totally bewildered.
Finally Jackie shook her head. ‘I don’t know what it is about that man, but he—well, he—’
‘It’s all right, Jackie,’ Silke sympathised, running an exasperated hand through the length of her hair. ‘He has the same effect on everyone.’ And she appeared to be stuck with going out to dinner with the man; how was she going to get through the evening?
‘Here’s that telephone number you asked for, Silke.’ Jackie stood in front of her desk, holding out a piece of paper towards her.
Silke blinked up at her, completely puzzled for a few seconds—and then she remembered. James! How could she have forgotten that he had telephoned? Lyon Buchanan, that was how! He was enough to drive every other thought from anyone’s mind—even that of an ex-fiancé who had contacted her after a year of silence—and almost a year of his being married to someone else!
My God, James had a nerve after all this time. What on earth could they have to say to each other now? The truth was, she had nothing to say to him. She had wanted to say it all a year ago and hadn’t been given the chance; now it was all totally irrelevant, even her pain and anger towards him having faded to a mild contempt for the way he had behaved.
She stared down at the piece of paper with his telephone number on long after Jackie had returned to her own outer office, vaguely registering the fact that James still worked for the same firm of accountants. Some things didn’t change, she acknowledged with wry self-derision. But she had, and James contacting her now was nothing more than an irritation. An irritation she could well have done without with Lyon Buchanan present!
Finally she opened her handbag and put the piece of paper with the telephone number inside her purse. Whatever James wanted to talk to her about, it could wait; it had already waited a year, so it couldn’t be that urgent.
The urgent thing on her