Edge Of Temptation. Anne Mather
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towards the open doorway she now saw behind him, inviting her into his study. On unsteady legs, she preceded him into the room, and schooled her features as he closed the leather-covered door behind them.
As he moved behind the square desk that dominated the room, she allowed herself a surreptitious appraisal of the boy who had grown into such an attractive man. Those summer days at Penwyn had never seemed so distant, or her own relationship with him so remote and unreal. He was truly his father’s successor, while she—she was still just the niece of one of his tenants, and no amount of success in her own field would alter that. He was older, of course. There were strands of grey in his dark hair, and the lines beside his mouth were deeply engrained. But his hair was still as thick as it had ever been, and longer than he used to wear it, and his mouth as deeply sensual as his lower lip denoted. He wore casual clothes—moleskin pants that clung to the powerful muscles of his thighs, a black shirt that accentuated the darkness of his skin, evidence of the time he spent outdoors, and a dark green corded jacket, with leather patches at the elbows.
‘Now, Miss Tempest,’ he said, indicating that she should take the leather chair opposite him. ‘Why did you want to see me?’
Catherine made a movement towards the chair, and then stilled. It might be easier standing up, although she sensed his mild impatience when he was obliged to remain standing, too. Clearing her throat, she endeavoured to meet his gaze, and was surprised to find a certain guardedness about his eyes.
‘My uncle asked me to speak to you,’ she said, and then wished she had not put it quite like that. ‘That is—he would have spoken to you himself, but—well, I offered to come.’
‘Did you?’ His dark eyebrows ascended.
‘Yes.’ He wasn’t making it any easier for her. ‘You—you must know why I’m here.’
‘I have a strong suspicion,’ he agreed evenly. Then: ‘Won’t you sit down? I’m sure you’d find it much more comfortable.’
Catherine hesitated only a moment longer before moving forward, albeit reluctantly, to seat herself in the chair he offered. With a sigh of satisfaction, Rafe Glyndower took his own leather armchair, and with long fingers beating a tattoo on its arm, he said: ‘Your uncle wants to know whether any decision has yet been made about the mine.’
Catherine pressed her lips together. ‘Yes.’
He nodded. ‘I guessed as much.’ His fingers stilled.
‘Naturally, he’s worried,’ Catherine justified herself. ‘It is his livelihood—the livelihood of his family. Naturally, he wants to know what’s going on.’
‘Naturally,’ agreed Rafe Glyndower dryly, and she wondered for a moment whether he was mocking her. But his expression was perfectly serious, and in any case, his next words drove all thought of mockery out of her mind. ‘You can tell him that no decision has been made—yet. When I do know anything definite, he’ll be the first to hear.’
‘Thank you.’ There was not much else she could say, even though she had still to voice her own opinion in the matter. ‘I’ll tell him what you’ve said. I know he’ll be relieved.’
‘Good.’ Was there a trace of anger in his voice now? ‘I’m glad to have been of service.’
Was that all? Catherine sought for words to express herself. ‘Do you—that is—do you know when you’ll have something definite to relate?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ He, was definitely withdrawing now, pushing back his chair, getting to his feet. ‘It’s been very nice seeing you again, Miss Tempest. Give my regards to your aunt and uncle, won’t you?’
Wait a minute!
The words were never spoken, but they drummed in Catherine’s head. Any minute now, she was going to be dismissed, and she still hadn’t voiced any of the objections she had come here to espouse.
‘Mr Glyndower …’
He was moving round the desk towards her as she spoke, but her words arrested him. ‘Yes?’ He was cautious, and pushing back her chair, she rose to face him.
‘You—you do appreciate my uncle’s position, don’t you, Mr Glyndower?’ she ventured nervously, and although his lids lowered ominously, she hastened on: ‘I mean—there’s more to this than just losing the land.’
‘I do know the arguments for and against,’ he reminded her, his tone colder than before, but now she had his attention, she was not about to relinquish it.
‘It would—destroy the whole community,’ she continued. ‘I don’t know what’s involved, but I do know that new roads would be needed for the vehicles transporting the ore to the smelting plant—would that be in the valley, too, by the way?—and the cottages in the village simply aren’t built to withstand that kind of vibration.’
‘Your concern does you credit,’ Rafe retorted shortly, but when he would have moved towards the door, she went on:
‘That’s without the destruction of the beauty of the valley. The river—would it become polluted, too? And what would they do with the rock they dig out? Would there be piles of debris everywhere?’
‘Miss Tempest—Catherine!’ He spoke through his teeth. ‘I know very little more about what’s involved here than you do. I’m as appalled as anyone else by the possible effects such a scheme might have on the ecology of this area, but there are other considerations. So far, all that’s been determined is that there are grounds for believing that a seam of ore may exist in the land above Penwyn. Your uncle knows there have been geologists working in the area. As yet, no actual drilling has been done, so all their work is purely speculative. It could be a cold trail. No one knows. Without further exploration, they never will.’
‘And—and that’s your decision. Whether or not to grant drilling rights?’
‘Yes.’
Catherine gazed at him, trying to read his mind, trying to penetrate the mask-like schooling of his features. For the first time she noticed the muscle jerking at his jawline, and the lines of weariness around his eyes. They were revealing aspects, and she realised, with a stirring of compassion, that he was not without a conscience. This was not easy for him, and after all, he need not have agreed to see her. For a moment the gulf between them narrowed, but as she parted her lips to utter some conventional words of gratitude for granting her this interview, the door opened behind him, and a slim, dark-haired young woman stood on the threshold.
Catherine recognised Lucy Glyndower at once. Apart from that occasion when she had accompanied her husband to the ball, she was regularly seen about the town. She drove a Volvo estate car, and Catherine had encountered her in the supermarket on more than one occasion. Not that Lucy acknowledged her. She seldom acknowledged anyone other than the manager of the store, and Catherine had heard the girls at the check-out grumbling about her haughty ways. Until this moment she had thought they exaggerated, but the look Mrs Glyndower cast in her direction was completely devoid of interest, and she turned immediately to her husband, almost as if Catherine wasn’t there.
‘I’ve just been speaking to Thomas!’ she declared, and there was a note of anger in her voice. ‘Are you aware—–’
Her husband’s intervention halted her tirade. ‘We have a guest, Lucy,’ he reminded her evenly. ‘Miss Tempest was just leaving. We can discuss Thomas later.’
His eyes held hers, and Catherine sensed the antipathy between them at that moment. Then, as if unwillingly accepting her husband’s injunction, Lucy Glyndower turned to face her.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘You’re Powys’s niece, aren’t you?’ The way she said it made Catherine’s resentment bristle, but she managed to disguise it. ‘My husband remembered your name. But you don’t live here in the valley, do you, Miss Tempest? So the loss of your uncle’s farm will mean little to you.’
Catherine squared her shoulders,