‘Power-hungry!’ Her mouth curled back in a sneer.
‘Well, really, my dear, there’s no need to resort to insults,’ Lady Spencer put in in her ultra-superior voice.
‘Isn’t there?’ Callie scoffed. ‘Believe me, I haven’t even started yet.’
‘On the contrary,’ ice seemed to drip from Logan’s voice. ‘You’re finished.’
‘Logan—’
‘Stay out of this, Mother,’ he said dismissively.
‘Yes, please do.’ Callie spoke gently to the bewildered woman; most of the conversation was obviously going over her head. Jeff had been right to pick her out as his favourite; Cicely Carrington was completely without guile or avarice—unlike her son, who possessed cruelty and greed in full measure. ‘I’m sorry this had to happen here,’ she said softly. ‘Jeff wouldn’t have liked to have seen you hurt.’
‘Jeff? You mean Jeffrey?’ Mrs. Carrington was slowly catching up with the conversation. ‘You mean my brother Jeffrey?’
‘Of course, Cissy,’ Sir Charles answered impatiently. ‘Haven’t you understood a word of what’s been said?’
Although she was the elder of the two Cicely looked flustered by his brusqueness. ‘Well, not really,’ she stuttered. ‘What does Jeffrey have to do with Callie and Logan?’
‘Everything!’ Logan declared with feeling.
‘Oh, Cissy, do listen!’ Lady Spencer was abrupt with her sister-in-law. ‘Caroline is the girl who lived with Jeffrey until he died.’
‘And where is Caroline now?’ Cissy blinked her puzzlement.
‘Here,’ Callie told her quietly.
Cicely Carrington looked at her with light grey eyes, frowning deeply. ‘But—but you can’t be!’
‘But I am.’
‘No, my dear. You see—’
‘Mother, I’ll fill you in on the bits you missed later,’ Logan interrupted tersely.
‘Does this mean that you and Callie aren’t getting married?’ Disappointment showed in her face.
‘Definitely not!’
‘I’d rather be dead!’
The two of them had spoken at the same time, their denials equally vehement, and Logan’s mouth tightened at Callie’s answer. ‘You’re lucky you aren’t already,’ he rasped coldly.
‘I’m not frightened of you,’ she scorned.
‘Then maybe you should be.’
The very coolness of his voice was what made her blanch. ‘I’ll go upstairs and get my things, then I’ll leave. Merry Christmas, everyone,’ Callie added cryptically, leaving the room with her head held high, waiting until she had closed the door before allowing her shoulders to slump, the tears to fall.
This morning she had been so happy, a false happiness as it turned out, and now her world had shattered into tiny fragments, fragments she didn’t have the will or energy to even try to put back together.
There were raised voices coming from the drawing-room now, evidence that the Spencers were still annoyed at Logan’s duplicity. He had been so clever—the apparently accidental meeting, giving up Danielle to go out with Callie as if she were special in his life, the no-touching approach that was intended, and had succeeded, in making her want him to touch her. Yes, she had fallen into the trap he set for her, had been a willing victim, and the price was a broken heart, and a lack of trust in anyone ever again.
There was still one thing she had to verify in this situation, the final nail in the coffin, so to speak, an idea brought about by something James Seymour, of all people, had said.
She had brought Bill’s report on Spencer Plastics with her, not really wanting to leave a private documented file like that about her flat over Christmas. There was only one thing in that report that interested her, one piece of information that would damn Logan for ever in her eyes.
Yes, there it was, in Bill’s neat handwriting—a list of the shareholders of Spencer Plastics. Herself, Sir Charles, and Cicely Carrington, and below the latter was the name of the person who controlled her shares for her, and that name was Logan Carrington.