His Wedding-Night Heir. Sara Craven
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friendly local department store needs like a hole in the head.
The kids’ parents, of course, were a different matter. Not everyone had the same concern for the disadvantaged as Genevieve Hartley had had, or tried to do anything about it. They’d be counting on that.
And the Gunners Terrace residents, once they were made homeless, would qualify for council housing anyway. That would be their argument, so how many people would really care if a small, struggling would-be community fell by the wayside?
But Cally knew that real pride, real spirit was being engendered in this tiny part of town, where those qualities had long been absent. And that it mattered. But it would soon wane once the families were dispersed, as seemed inevitable.
They deserve to survive, she told herself with sudden angry passion. They don’t need another defeat. If only—only—there was something I could do…
But there could have been—once, a sly voice in her head reminded her. If you’d chosen another kind of life. If you hadn’t run away. You might have made all the difference.
For a moment she was motionless, staring into the distance with eyes that saw nothing but pain.
She said under her breath, ‘But I made the right—the only possible choice. I know that.’ And dropped the broken pencil into the wastepaper basket.
She had no smart clothes, so she opted for another version of her working gear for their visit to the Town Hall.
The exhibition, which included a video presentation as well as a scale model of the development, was being staged in the conference hall—which hadn’t seen many conferences, but was useful for antiques fairs and craft markets. Also for the flower show in its usual inclement weather.
The Mayor and his entourage were clearly preening themselves because the place was living up to its grandiose title at last.
There were a lot of people present, most of them clustered around the tables where the scale model was set up, and the remainder hovering near the lavish buffet.
Waiters were going round with trays of champagne and heavy platters loaded with canapés, presumably all with the compliments of Eastern Crest. How to win friends and influence people, Cally thought cynically as she stood with Kit and Tracy, wondering whom they should approach.
But in the end the decision was made for them when they found themselves caught in a pincer movement by Gordon Hartley and his younger brother Neville, their faces flushed and inimical as they strode across the room.
‘I wasn’t aware anyone had asked you here.’ Gordon addressed Kit, ignoring the two girls completely. ‘I’d like you to leave—now.’
Kit held up three invitation cards. ‘Someone clearly has a different idea,’ he returned coolly. ‘I thought we should see what we’re up against.’
‘You’re up against nothing,’ Neville chimed in. ‘You’ve already lost, so what’s the point in coming here, making fools of yourselves? Our mother may have looked on you all as an act of charity, but we don’t.’
‘All the same.’ Kit was undeterred. ‘We’d like to have a look at the proposed development, and maybe speak to whoever’s in charge at Eastern Crest.’
Cally found herself admiring his calmness. His refusal to be rattled. He had ‘We shall not be moved’ written all over him, in spite of the hostility he was faced with.
Goodness, she thought, if Leila had come she’d have bitten someone in the leg by now.
‘Then you’re really out of luck.’ Gordon was speaking again, his tone curt, pushing his weight forward threateningly. ‘Because the chairman himself is hosting tonight’s presentation, and he plays in the big league. Get out now, before you become a laughing stock or he has you removed.’
The brothers’ raised voices were attracting attention, Cally realised, with embarrassment. Curious glances from all over the room were coming their way, and even some of the crowd round the model were turning their heads to look.
She realised that she wasn’t just uncomfortable, she’d actually begun to tremble inside. Even begun to be afraid in some obscure but compelling way.
We shouldn’t be here, she thought, swallowing. We may have invitations, but there’ll be an official guest list somewhere, and we’re still gatecrashers.
She touched Kit’s sleeve. ‘Listen,’ she began, ‘maybe we should…’
But the sentence was never completed. Because she was suddenly aware that a hush had fallen. That someone was making his way across the room towards them between groups of people that obediently fell back at his approach.
A tall man, she saw, with a thin tanned face under fashionably dishevelled hair, dark as a raven’s wing. A face marked by high cheekbones, a nose and chin almost arrogant in their strength, a mouth tough and unsmiling. And totally unforgettable.
The muscularity of his broad-shouldered, lean-hipped body was emphasised by the elegance of his designer suit as he strode towards them with powerful, determined grace, purpose in his every line.
He was someone, she realised, the breath catching in her throat, that she knew. Whose reappearance in her life she’d been dreading for over a year. And who was here now, almost within touching distance, when there was no time to run or place to go.
All she could do was stand her ground and pray to whatever unseen deity protected fugitives.
But as his eyes, grey and deep as a winter ocean, met hers, Cally felt the measure of his glance in the marrow of her bones, and knew that her escape had only been an illusion all along.
‘Good evening.’ The cool, crisp voice was like ice on her skin. ‘Is there some problem?’
A game, Cally thought numbly. He was playing a game, with rules that he’d invented. But no one knew it but herself.
‘A few troublemakers have got in, Sir Nicholas,’ Neville Hartley said swiftly. ‘But we’re dealing with them. So if you’d like to go back to your guests…’
‘Presently,’ the newcomer said quietly. He looked at Kit. ‘May I know who you are?’
Kit cleared his throat. ‘I’m Christopher Matlock, and I run the Children’s Centre, and the Residents’ Association down at Gunners Wharf. We face eviction because of your development, but I’m still hoping some compromise can be reached, and that you might spare me some time to discuss the matter.’
‘Ah, yes.’ The other man nodded. ‘This has been mentioned to me.’ He turned to Tracy, whose face had been blotched with nerves ever since their arrival. ‘And this is?’ His smile held a swift charm that softened the hardness of his face.
‘Tracy—Tracy Andrews,’ Kit said quickly, seeing that she was beyond speech. ‘One of the residents.’ He turned to Cally. ‘And this is my administrative assistant.’
‘Oh, but we need no introduction,’ the new arrival said with cold mockery. ‘Do we, Caroline, my love?’
Before she could move he took one long step towards her, capturing her chin in his long fingers. He bent his head, and for a brief, hideous second Cally felt the sear of his mouth on hers.
He straightened, his lips twisting. ‘They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. I wonder if that’s true. Because you don’t seem very pleased to see me.’
‘Cally?’ Kit was staring at her, lips parted in shock. ‘You know this man?’
‘Yes.’ She forced her lips to move to make the necessary sounds. ‘His name is Nicholas Tempest.’
‘I’m the chairman of Eastern Crest.’ His smile did not reach his eyes. The gaze that held hers was a challenge, and a warning. ‘Now, tell him the rest, darling.’
And from some far, terrible distance, she heard herself say, with a