скачать книгу бесплатно
Once again Arthur came back to the present with a start. ‘Nothing!’ he asserted.
‘You seem to be miles away,’ Damien commented. ‘Is Penny all right or not?’
‘She’s fine. She’s fine,’ Arthur repeated, and came to another sudden decision, although with an inward grimace. ‘Look, Damien, I’ve changed my mind about Harriet Livingstone. I don’t think she’s the right one after all. So give me a few days and I’ll find someone else.’
It was a penetratingly narrowed dark gaze Damien bestowed on Arthur Tindall. ‘That’s a rather sudden change of heart,’ he drawled.
‘Yes, well, a blind man could see you two are unlikely to get along so...’ Arthur left his sentence up in the air.
Damien settled more comfortably in his chair. ‘Where are you going to find a paragon to equal Ms Livingstone? Or was that a slight exaggeration on your part?’ he asked casually enough, although with a load of implied satire.
‘No it was not!’ Arthur denied. ‘And I have no idea where I’m going to find one—be that as it may, I will.’
Damien Wyatt rubbed his jaw. ‘I’ll have a look at her.’
Arthur sat up indignantly. ‘Now look here; you can’t change your mind just like that!’
‘Not many minutes ago you were hoping to goad me into doing just that.’
‘When?’
‘When you told me I’d be the last person on earth she’d work for. You were hoping that would annoy me or simply arouse my contrary streak to the extent I’d change my mind.’ Damien’s lips twisted. ‘Well, I have.’
‘Which streak prompted that, do you think? A rather large ego?’ Arthur enquired heavily after a moment’s thought.
Damien grinned. ‘No idea. Bring her here for an interview tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Damien—’ Arthur rose ‘—I have to say I can’t guarantee the girl.’
‘You mean everything you told me about her provenance et cetera—’ Damien raised his eyebrows sardonically ‘—was a lot of bull dust?’
‘No,’ Arthur denied. ‘I followed up every reference she gave me and they all checked out, I’ve talked to her and sounded her out on a range of art work, as I mentioned, but—’
‘Just bring her, Arthur,’ Damien interrupted wearily. ‘Just bring her.’
* * *
Despite this repeated command, Damien Wyatt stayed where he was for a few minutes after Arthur had gone, as he asked himself why he’d done what he’d just done.
No sensible answer presented itself other than that he had somehow felt goaded into it, although not because of anything Arthur had said.
So—curiosity, perhaps? Why would Harriet Livingstone want to have anything to do with him after, he had to admit, he’d been pretty unpleasant to her? Some quirky form of revenge?
More likely a quirky form of attaching herself to him, he thought cynically. All the more reason to have stuck to his guns and refused to see the girl.
What else could have been at work behind the scenes of his mental processes then? he asked himself rather dryly. Boredom?
Surely not. He had enough on his plate at the moment to keep six men busy. He had an overseas trip coming up in a couple of days, and yet...
He stared into the distance with a frown. Of course the possibility remained that it wasn’t the same girl...
* * *
At three o’clock the next afternoon, Harriet Livingstone and Arthur Tindall were shown into the lounge at Heathcote by a tall angular woman with iron-grey hair cut in a short cap. Arthur addressed the woman as Isabel and kissed her on the cheek but didn’t introduce her. Arthur was looking worried and distracted.
Damien Wyatt came in from outside through another door, accompanied by a large dog.
He threw his sunglasses onto a side table and said something to the dog, a young, highly bred and powerful Scottish wolfhound, that sat down obligingly although looking keenly alert.
‘Ah,’ Damien Wyatt said to Arthur after a brief but comprehensive study of Harriet, ‘same girl.’ He turned back to Harriet. ‘We meet again, Miss Livingstone. I’d almost convinced myself you wouldn’t be the same person or, if you were, that you wouldn’t come.’
Harriet cleared her throat. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Wyatt,’ she said almost inaudibly.
Damien narrowed his eyes and cast Arthur an interrogative glance but Arthur only looked blank.
Damien returned his attention to Harriet Livingstone.
No batik wraparound skirt today, he noted: an unexceptional navy linen dress instead. Not too long, not too short, not too tight, although it did make her blue eyes even bluer. In fact her outfit was very discreetly elegant and so were her shoes, polished navy leather with little heels. This caused a faint fleeting smile to twist his lips as it crossed his mind that this girl probably rarely, if ever, wore higher heels. And he wondered what it must be like for a girl to be as tall, if not taller, than many of the men she met. Not that she was taller than he was...
Then there was her hair. Shoulder-length, fair and with a tendency to curl, it no longer looked as if she’d been pulled through a bush backwards. It was neatly tied up instead with a black ribbon. Her make-up was minimal. In fact it was all so...what? he asked himself. Well-bred, classic, timeless, discreet—he had no difficulty imagining her in the hallowed halls of some revered antique and art auction company or a museum.
But, and this caused him to frown rather than smile, the main difference between this Harriet Livingstone and the girl who’d run into him was that she was no longer thin. Very slender, perhaps, but no, not exactly skinny.
Despite being slender rather than skinny and despite her more composed outward presentation, it was, however, plain to see that she was strung as taut as a piano wire.
It was also plain to see—and his eyes widened slightly as his gaze travelled down her figure—that her legs were little short of sensational...
‘Well,’ he said, ‘you were right, Arthur, but let’s get down to brass tacks. We’ve organised a few of my mother’s things in the dining room. Please come through and give me your opinion of them, Ms Livingstone.’
He moved forward and the dog rose and came with him but stopped to look at Harriet with almost human curiosity. And, as Harriet returned the dog’s gaze, just a little of her tension seemed to leave her.
Damien noticed this with a slight narrowing of his eyes. And he said, somewhat to his surprise, ‘I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce you—this is Tottie, Miss Livingstone. Her proper name is much more complicated. Something tells me you like dogs?’
Harriet put out a hand for Tottie to inspect. ‘Yes. It’s one of the reasons I ran into you,’ she murmured. ‘I thought I’d killed the dog and I—just froze.’
Arthur tut-tutted.
Damien Wyatt blinked, twice. ‘Much worse in your estimation than killing me, I gather?’
Harriet Livingstone allowed Tottie to lick her hand then said quietly, ‘Of course not. I didn’t—I’m sorry but I didn’t have time to think about you or anything else. It all happened so fast.’
‘I’m suitably damned,’ he replied. ‘All right, let’s get this show on the road.’
‘If you’re having second thoughts I’d quite understand,’ Harriet said politely, with a less than polite glint in her eye, however.
She really doesn’t like him, Arthur thought and rubbed his face distractedly. So why is she doing this?
But what Damien said took him even further by surprise. ‘On the contrary, after what Arthur has told me about you I’m positively agog to see you in action. Shall I lead on?’
He didn’t wait for her response but strode out with Tottie following regally.
* * *
Harriet put the exquisite little jade peach tree down on the table with a sigh of pleasure. And her gaze swept over the rest of the treasures spread out on the dining room table. ‘They’re all lovely—she had marvellous taste, your mother. And judgement.’ She took off her red-rimmed glasses.
Damien was leaning his broad shoulders against the mantelpiece with his arms crossed. He did not respond to her admiration of his mother’s collection but said, ‘Is that a new pair or did you get them fixed?’ He nodded towards her glasses resting on the table.
Harriet looked confused for a moment, then, ‘Oh, it was only a lens that got broken so I was able to get a new one.’
‘Red glasses.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Not quite in keeping with the restrained elegance of the rest of you—today, that is.’
A fleeting smile twisted Harriet’s lips. ‘Ah, but it makes them a lot easier to find.’ And, for a moment, she thought he was going to smile too but he continued to look unamused.
Harriet looked away.
‘How would you catalogue them?’ he asked after a moment. ‘This is not even one tenth of them, by the way.’
‘I’d photograph them in the sequence I came upon them and I’d write an initial summary of them. Then, when they were all itemised—’ Harriet laced her fingers ‘—I’d probably sort them into categories, mainly to make it easier to locate them and I’d write a much more comprehensive description of them, their condition, any research I’d done on them, any work required on them et cetera. I’d also, if your mother kept any receipts or paperwork on them, try to marry it all up.’
‘How long do you think that would take?’
Harriet shrugged. ‘Hard to say without seeing the full extent of the collection.’
‘Months,’ Arthur supplied with gloomy conviction.
‘Were you aware it was a live-in position, Miss Livingstone?’ Damien queried. ‘Because we’re out in the country here, whoever does the job will spend an awful lot of time travelling otherwise.’
‘Yes, Arthur did explain that. I believe there’s an old stable block that’s been converted to a studio and it has a flat above it. But—’ Harriet paused ‘—weekends would be free, wouldn’t they?’
Damien raised an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t Arthur tell you that?’
‘He did,’ Harriet agreed, ‘but I needed to double-check.’
‘A boyfriend you’re eager to get back to?’ Damien didn’t wait for her response. ‘If that’s going to be a problem and you’re forever wanting time off to be with him—’
‘Not at all,’ Harriet cut across him quite decisively.
‘Not at all, you wouldn’t be wanting time off all the time or not at all, there is no boyfriend?’ Damien enquired.
Arthur coughed. ‘Damien, I don’t think—’ he began but Harriet interrupted him this time.
‘It’s quite all right, Arthur.’ She turned back to Damien. ‘Allow me to set your mind at rest, Mr Wyatt. There is no fiancé, no husband, no lovers, in short, no one in my life to distract me in that direction.’
‘Well, well,’ Damien drawled, ‘not only a paragon in your profession but also your private life.’
Harriet Livingstone merely allowed her deep blue gaze to rest on him thoughtfully for a moment or two before she turned away with the tiniest shrug, as if to say he was some kind of rare organism she didn’t understand.
Bloody hell, Damien Wyatt found himself thinking as he straightened abruptly, who does she think she is? Not content with smashing my car and causing me considerable discomfort for weeks, she’s—
He didn’t get to finish this set of thoughts as the woman called Isabel popped her head around the door and offered them afternoon tea.
Arthur looked at his watch. ‘Thank you so much, Isabel, but I’m afraid I won’t have time. Penny wants me home by four.’ He paused. ‘What about you, Harriet? We did come in separate cars,’ he explained to Damien.
Harriet hesitated and glanced at Damien. And because most of his mental sensors seemed to be honed in on this tall, slender girl, he saw the tension creep back as she picked up her purse and her knuckles whitened.
And he heard himself say something he hadn’t expected to say. ‘If you’d like a cup of tea, stay by all means, Miss Livingstone. We haven’t finished the interview anyway.’
She hesitated again then thanked him quietly.
Isabel retreated and Arthur, looking visibly harassed, subjected them to an involved explanation of why he needed to be home. Plus he was obviously reluctant to miss any of the verbal duel he was witnessing. But he finally left. And the tea tray arrived but this time Damien introduced the bearer as his aunt Isabel, and invited her to join them.
‘Sorry,’ Isabel said as she put the tea tray down on the coffee table set in front of the settee in a corner of the dining room, ‘but I’m popping into Lennox to pick up our dry-cleaning. Please excuse me, Miss Livingstone,’ she added.
Harriet nodded somewhat dazedly and once again the door closed, this time on his aunt.
‘I don’t think there’s anyone else who could interrupt us,’ Damien Wyatt said with some irony. ‘Do sit down and pour the tea.’
Harriet sank down onto the settee and her hand hovered over the tea tray. ‘Uh—there’s only one cup.’
‘I never drink the stuff,’ he said dismissively, ‘so pour yours and let’s get on with things.’
Harriet lifted the heavy silver teapot and spilt some tea on the pristine white tray cloth.
Damien swore beneath his breath, and came over to sit down beside her. ‘Put it down and tell me something, Harriet Livingstone—why are you doing this? No, wait.’
He picked up the pot Harriet had relinquished and poured a cup of tea without spilling a drop. Then he indicated the milk and sugar but she shook her head. ‘Th-that’s fine, just as it comes, thank you.’
He moved the cup and saucer in front of her and offered her a biscuit that looked like homemade shortbread.
She shook her head.
‘I can guarantee them. The cook makes them himself,’ he said.
‘Thank you but no. I—I don’t have a sweet tooth.’
He pushed the porcelain biscuit barrel away. ‘You look—you don’t look as sk— as thin as you did that day,’ he amended.
A flicker of amusement touched her mouth. ‘Skinny you were going to say? I guess I did. I lost a bit of weight for a time. I’ve probably always been thin, though.’
‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘But look, why are you doing this?’
Harriet hesitated and watched the steam rising gently from her tea.
‘You obviously haven’t forgiven me for the things I said that day,’ he continued. ‘Most of the time since you’ve been here you’ve been a nervous wreck or, if not that, beaming pure hostility my way. The only thing that seems to relax you is contact with my dog or my mother’s odds and ends.’
He broke off and looked rueful as Tottie rose, came over and arranged herself at Harriet’s feet.
Harriet glanced at him briefly. In jeans, boots and a khaki bush shirt, with his thick hair ruffled and blue shadows on his jaw, he looked the epitome of a man of the land whereas, when she’d bumped into him, in a grey suit, he’d definitely been more of a high-flying businessman.
