Obviously a waiting-room of sorts, it was decorated with watered-silk wall hangings, the Georgian panels painted in a chinoiserie design of birds and branches. Two deep-cushioned settees were covered in the same pastel watered silk as the walls, a cheerful open fire burned in what Heather suspected must be the original Adam grate, and the commissionaire escorted her over to a pretty early Victorian writing-desk, fully equipped with notepaper and pens.
She wrote quickly, before she could change her mind, feeling the desperation and dislike building up inside her as she did so. When she had finished, she studied what she had written for a second.
‘Kyle, I need to talk to you about Mum and Dad. Please don’t ignore this note.’
And she sighed it with her full name.
She sealed it before she could give way to any second thoughts, and handed it to the waiting man.
Once he had gone she was seized by a wave of dread, so strong that she was actually half-way to the door before she realised what she was doing. She couldn’t leave now. She had to see this thing through. What was she frightened of? Making a fool of herself in front of Kyle, laying herself open to his mockery and contempt? Was her own pride really so important that it mattered more to her than her father’s life?
Instantly ashamed, she went back into the room. The very worst thing Kyle could do would be to refuse to see her. It didn’t matter how much he humiliated her, as long as he agreed to pay for her father’s operation.
For the first time she contemplated what was likely to happen if her mission failed. The thought made her skin go cold, and she started to shiver.
The commissionaire, walking in and seeing her, frowned and asked anxiously, ‘Are you all right, miss?’
‘Yes, yes…I’m fine.’ Heather gave him a distracted smile. She was so tensed up that her body was aching with the strain she was imposing on it.
‘Mr Bennett said to show you up.’
Was she imagining that new tinge of respect in the man’s voice? Plainly the man thought she had been given something approaching an accolade, but she could not allow herself to relax yet. All she had achieved was one tiny step forward.
The lift was hidden away discreetly, behind another of the doors. As it slid smoothly upwards, Heather pressed a protesting hand to her taut stomach. She was only just beginning to realise the true meaning of the phrase ‘butterflies in the tummy’. The ones in hers seemed to be involved in a mad, frantic dance.
The lift stopped and, following the commissionaire’s directions, she walked down the elegantly decorated corridor to its solitary door.
It was opened before she reached it, and the young woman who motioned her in made Heather all too aware of the shortcomings in her own face and figure. This girl could have posed from the front cover of Vogue and drawn gasps of awe from everyone who saw her.
She was a perfect, frosted Nordic blonde of the type normally found in sophisticated American cities, cool and very sure of herself, her glance sweeping dismissively over Heather’s now tousled curls and clothes.
The simple little outfit she was wearing looked very like a Donna Karan, the silk jersey fluidly tracing every lush curve of her perfect figure. Her nails, medium length and impossibly glossy, reproached the lack of attention Heather paid to hers. It was impossible to keep them immaculate when she was working, and instinctively she tucked them away in her pockets.
‘Kyle said to show you straight in.’
Her smile revealed perfectly capped teeth, her accent pure Sloane Ranger, whose whole manner was designed to intimidate, Heather reflected as she followed her through an anteroom and up to a heavy panelled door.
She tapped on it and then pushed it open, standing aside so that Heather could go in.
It was furnished exactly as she might have expected, all stripped-down panels and a huge status-symbol desk, behind which she expected to find Kyle sitting.
Only he wasn’t. He was standing in front of the fire, engaged in the homely task of putting fresh logs on it.
He turned round as his secretary closed the door, dusting off his hands, his cool eyes taking their time in surveying her.
‘Well, this is a surprise.’
There was nothing in his manner to give her any clue as to how he was going to react to her request. She had half expected a sarcasm that wasn’t there, but the lack of it only made her skin prickle with increased nervousness.
She had forgotten how magnetic he was, how he dominated every situation he was in, simply by the power of his personality. No man who had made of his life what he had, from the very worst of beginnings, could have achieved so much without it, but she had forgotten, or overlooked, how awe-inspiring he could be.
The immaculate dark suit and crisp white shirt added to the image, of course. His tie was discreet, and toned beautifully with his suit. When he shot back his cuff and glanced frowningly at his watch, as though warning her that her time was limited, she caught a flash of gold against the snowy white, and the firelight played momentarily on the sinewy strength of his wrist, his flesh brown and firm, crisscrossed with a dark feathering of hairs. Her stomach somersaulted and she was shaken by a sudden surge of inexplicable reaction. She wanted to turn tail and run, and probably would have done so, if he hadn’t moved, fragmenting the image burned on her brain.
‘Your note said you wanted to see me about your parents.’
His voice hadn’t changed, although now all trace of his accent seemed to have been obliterated. It had almost gone that last time he had come home, she remembered, surprised by the sudden shudder the sound of it sent off deep inside her.
He had moved, so that he was blocking the heat of the fire from her, and suddenly she realised how cold she was. She could feel the shivers building up inside her, her fingers icy-cold, in direct contrast to the heat she could feel filling her cheeks and throat.