8 Magnificent Millionaires. Cathy Williams
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her eyes with an intense glance that sent a little zing of heat dancing through her blood, but Liadan told herself she must have imagined the distinct note of concern in Adrian’s voice. The only concern he had was to be obeyed to the letter, she thought crossly. Yesterday, when he had confided in her about Petra Collins, now seemed like something she had dreamt—because today he was suddenly a very different man. Today he was definitely the Lord and Master of all he surveyed, and Liadan very much his lowly employee. No doubt he had regretted telling her so much and now sought to establish the proper distance to their relationship, lest she should try and take advantage.
She shouldn’t feel so upset at the idea, but strangely she did. She was alone out here, in this big, aloof house, with a man who was about as sociable as a wounded bear and with a growing sense that whatever she did—however perfectly or wonderfully she did her job—it would somehow never be good enough.
‘Was there anything else, Mr Jacobs? I really should get on.’ Lifting one of the glass vases, Liadan blew a curling red-gold lock of hair from her eyes, striving to keep her gaze as impersonal and unaffected as possible. A frown between his dark brows, Adrian didn’t reply straight away. To Liadan’s increasing discomfort he seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time just staring at her. What he was thinking about, she couldn’t begin to guess.
‘The flowers can stay,’ he said gruffly.
Her blue eyes widened in surprise. ‘Really?’
‘It’s not a big deal.’
‘Oh, but it is!’ Putting the vase back in its place, Liadan straightened, resting her hand momentarily on the marble mantel. ‘If putting them here makes you unhappy, I’ll take them away to my room. This is your home. You have a right to have things the way you like them.’
Home. Adrian’s glance was unremittingly scornful. ‘It’s people who make a home, Liadan, not bricks and mortar. Take away the people who matter and all you have is a shell. Small or grand—it doesn’t matter. It’s still a shell.’
Sensing his anguish and frustration, Liadan didn’t know what to say. For a moment there she’d never seen anyone look more lost…or more alone.
‘Anyway, I’d better put you in the picture about tomorrow.’
‘What’s happening tomorrow?’ Relieved that he’d changed the subject because he would probably only scorn any comfort she tried to offer, Liadan waited with interest for him to tell her.
‘Cheryl Kendall’s newspaper is printing Petra’s claim about the abortion. I fully expect to be invaded in the morning by journalists champing at the bit. My solicitor, Edward Barry, will be here first thing to make a statement on my behalf. Just stay put in the house for a while until they go, will you? I don’t want you getting caught up in the free-for-all, and, believe me, it will be one.’
He had that world-weary look in his dark eyes again and this time Liadan really did feel like comforting him. She knew it wasn’t her place and that she had no right—she was just someone he’d given a job to, and what did she know of the personal torment he was going through? But she was adamant that he shouldn’t have to endure such invasion alone, with nobody on his side but his solicitor.
‘Is there anything I can do for you, Adrian?’
‘Just do the job I’m paying you to do. There’s nothing more you can do for me but that.’
As Adrian turned away from the distinctly hurt look in her lovely blue eyes he wondered when he’d added lying to his list of sins. Right now there was another kind of comfort he’d readily accept from Liadan Willow. And it definitely wasn’t a kind that was within the remit of her job. He should put his lustful thoughts about her firmly to the back of his mind and remember that he needed a housekeeper far more than he needed a woman to warm his bed.
Returning to his study, he found it impossible to concentrate on his manuscript. Seeing those bright yellow tulips in the drawing room had foisted a wave of melancholy upon him that he couldn’t seem to shake. It wasn’t that he hated flowers as such—when everything started to bloom again in the gardens there was nothing he enjoyed more than to walk undisturbed through the meandering paths and admire nature at its most lovely. But flowers in the house reminded him of the cloying, desolate atmosphere of Nicole’s home on the day of her funeral. Because it had been raining heavily outside, all the mourners had gathered first at the house and Trevor and Barbara Wilson’s home had been full of bouquets and wreaths, the rooms overflowing with them. Their combined sweet cloying scent had almost made Adrian gag.
Now he found that his body was restless and he had a frustration in him that for once wouldn’t be beaten into submission by applying himself to work. Dreading the melee and intrusion of newspaper journalists tomorrow, he wished he could escape somewhere where he would never be found again. He’d had a fling with Petra Collins in a weak, despairing moment, fuelled by an excess of alcohol at dinner, and now regretted it bitterly. Adrian could only pray that once this latest nonsense had died a thoroughly deserved death, they would all go away and leave him alone for good.
Knowing he had to divert his restless energy somehow, he put a classical CD in the player, sat in his favourite winged armchair where he could gaze out at the melting snow in a landscape that was usually lush and green, and waited for the music to bring salve to his soul.
Unable to sleep, her mind whirring with thoughts of the morning when a barrage of reporters would apparently be gathering on the front steps, Liadan got out of bed, pulled on her white towelling robe over tartan flannel pyjamas and stepped outside into the long, echoing corridor. Thankfully there was a light still burning and she could see her way down the long, sweeping staircase to the lower floor where the kitchen was. Assuring herself that a glass of hot milk would do the trick and help her to sleep, she opened the door and switched on the light. Her heart almost burst out of her chest in fright when she saw Adrian stare back at her in surprise from the comfort of the kitchen chair he was currently occupying. In his hand he nursed what looked like a glass of scotch. His hooded eyes adjusting themselves to the light, his stern mouth lifted in a mocking little smile.
‘Sweet dreams evading you too tonight, Liadan? Perhaps you’d like to join me in drowning my sorrows in a glass of whisky?’
‘I’d prefer some hot milk, thank you,’ she replied primly, clutching at the tie on her robe to make sure it was secure. Adrian’s answering humourless laugh sent goose-bumps flying in all directions across her sensitive skin.
‘Of course you would. You probably think there’s something sordid about resorting to alcohol in moments of weakness, don’t you? Forgive me, Liadan. I don’t mean to offend your obviously delicate sensibilities.’
Upset and annoyed by his careless assumptions about her nature, Liadan came fully into the room, facing Adrian with little shooting sparks of fury in her bright blue eyes.
‘You should know better than to make such casual judgements about people! You don’t like it done to you, so why do you imagine I should tolerate it? You think I haven’t been so hurt that I can’t understand how a person might use a drink or two to try and deaden the pain? Well, think again, Mr Jacobs, because I have.’ Biting her lip to stop it from wobbling, Liadan gulped down a deep breath, then walked towards a line of cupboards on the other side of the room, intent on searching out a milk pan to make her drink.
She wouldn’t think about Michael right now. Nor would she recall the terrible feelings of deep rejection because when it came down to it she hadn’t been able to compete with his faith. But it wasn’t just his rejection that had hurt. There were times before he’d made the decision to leave when she had allowed herself to feel less than worthless. Times when he’d berated or scolded her for not being as capable, or intelligent, or faultless as she might be. Times when he’d suggested that her virtue was tainted for ever because she’d slept with a boyfriend when she was twenty and wasn’t a virgin. Michael hadn’t wanted to sleep with Liadan because she was somehow defiled, unclean in his mind, not just because of his faith.
Behind her she registered the sound of Adrian’s chair