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Cass was burning again, but this time with embarrassment, not delirium. She managed a taut smile. ‘No, he isn’t a boyfriend,’ she said quietly. ‘Just—a colleague of sorts, and I can’t imagine why he should have gone to all this trouble.’
‘Flowers he brought too,’ said Mrs Barrett. ‘I left them in your living room, because my mother used to say flowers in a sick room could be funny. I’ll get them for you, now you’re awake.’ She bustled off to return a moment later with about a ton of freesias arranged in an ornamental basket. ‘Don’t they smell lovely,’ she said ecstatically. ‘I’ll put them on the chest of drawers where you can see them.’
She was right about that, Cass thought wearily later. Wherever she looked in the room, the freesias seemed to be there, in the corner of her eye. When she got up to go to the bathroom, she carried them back into the living room, and put them in the middle of the small dining table. She didn’t want them in her bedroom, reminding her constantly of him—the interloper who’d been there. Not a dream, not delirium, but reality. And how dared he? she thought, trying to work herself up into a rage, but finding she was still too listless to make the effort. All she really wanted to do was cry weakly, but she couldn’t do that. She’d shed her last tear a long time ago.
When evening came, she felt well enough to get up. She ate the supper which Mrs Barrett provided—a fluffy omelette flanked by grilled tomatoes—by the fire, then switched on the television. Some commercials which she and Roger had designed for a client were scheduled for their first showing, and Cass hadn’t been entirely happy about the filming. The client, a fitted kitchen manufacturer, had insisted on having a particular actress feature in the commercials for reasons, Cass gathered, of a sexual rather than an artistic nature. Roger had roared with laughter about it, but Cass hadn’t been so amused, watching take after take being ruined. And the girl was still wooden, she thought, viewing the finished product critically. If the fitted kitchen industry collapsed, she would probably never work again. Or if the client’s wife found out, Cass thought drily.
As she switched off the set, she heard her front door buzzer. Mrs Barrett, she thought, returning for the tray.
‘Come in,’ she called. ‘It isn’t locked.’
She sank gratefully back on to the sofa, curling her legs under her.
He said, ‘Don’t you think you should keep it locked. I might have been a burglar.’
Cass jumped, every nerve ending jangling, as she stared at him, leaning against the door jamb.
She said, stammering, ‘What—what are you doing here?’
‘Checking the invalid’s progress,’ he said pleasantly, and strolled forward.
She said hurriedly, ‘I’m fine,’ aware as she spoke, that she was involuntarily tucking the folds of her dressing gown further around her feet and legs, and that the hazel eyes had taken sardonic note of her action.
‘Yes, I’d like to sit down,’ he said mockingly. ‘And, no, I won’t have any coffee, thank you.’
Cass flushed. ‘Well, I’m not offering,’ she said grittily. ‘Perhaps you’d leave.’
‘Not when I’ve only just got here.’ He shrugged off the supple suede car coat he was wearing, and dropped it across the arm of the sofa, then sat down opposite her, stretching out long legs. He was more casually dressed this evening, she couldn’t help noticing, with dark brown pants moulding themselves to his body, and topped by a matching roll neck cashmere sweater. She looked away hurriedly, fiddling with the sash of her robe. ‘Besides, I want to talk to you, and you were in no fit state for conversation when I called yesterday.’
‘Why did you?’ She glared at him.
‘To see if your sudden illness was genuine, or just a convenient excuse for avoiding me.’
‘You flatter yourself, Mr Grant,’ Cass said defiantly. ‘I’m hardly concerned enough about you and your boundless male egotism to go to those lengths.’
He raised eyebrows. ‘You never miss a chance, do you, Cass? I’ll bet you’re the pride of the local sisterhood. Even when you’re struggling back from the ‘flu, you’re punching your weight. Actually, I thought I should reassure you.’
‘About what?’ She gave him a wary look.
‘The Eve cosmetics account.’ He paused. ‘You seemed to think there might be—strings attached. You’re wrong.’ He gave her a long look. ‘And you’re also wrong if you thought I’d tell Finiston about your unique method of turning down dinner invitations.’ His smile was thin. ‘So if you were expecting repercussions, there’s no need.’
Cass bit her lip. She couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t a relief. ‘Thank you,’ she acknowledged stiltedly.
‘Please don’t mention it,’ he said, too courteously. ‘Now the next item on the agenda. Why the hell did you hand me all that “I’m a married woman” garbage, when you’ve been a widow for at least four years?’
Cass lifted her head defiantly. ‘To try and convince you that I wasn’t interested in you or your invitations. You didn’t seem prepared to take no for an answer.’ She paused. ‘How did you find out?’
‘A few casual questions at Finiston Webber. It was amazing the amount of information that was volunteered.’
‘Including my address,’ she said bitterly.
He laughed. ‘No, I got that from the telephone book. So, if you want to keep my visits here as another of your little secrets, then there’s nothing to stop you.’ He linked his hands behind his head, and watched her from beneath lazily drooping lids. ‘Your colleagues regard you as something of an enigma, did you know that?’
‘It’s not something they’re likely to discuss with me,’ she said flatly. ‘Perhaps you’d extend me the same courtesy, and keep out of my personal affairs.’
He gave her a mocking look. ‘But there don’t seem to have been any, Cass. Even the mildest approaches have had the brush-off. Why? And don’t tell me your heart’s in the grave,’ he added cynically. ‘The vibrant creature who sold me an advertising campaign didn’t give that impression at all.’
‘That’s typical masculine arrogance,’ she said stormily, her breasts rising and falling jerkily. ‘None of you can believe that it’s possible for a woman to lead a full, satisfying life without a—a tame stud somewhere in the background.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Well, believe this, Mr Grant. I’ve been married. My husband is dead. I have a child and a career, and I love both of them. There’s no need, no room in my life for another—relationship. Incredible as it must seem, I’m just not interested.’
The long lashes lifted, and the brilliant hazel eyes searched her flushed passionate face remorselessly. ‘Do you prefer women perhaps?’
The breath caught in her throat. ‘Oh.’ She almost threw herself off the sofa. ‘Of course. The obvious explanation. If not one sexual connotation, then another. My God, you make me sick.’ She paused, swallowing thickly. ‘Now—get out. Just because I don’t fancy you, doesn’t give you the right to force yourself into my home and insult me.’
‘Is that what I did?’ He rose, and, barefoot as she was, she felt dwarfed although she’d always regarded herself as being of reasonable height for a woman. But it wasn’t just a physical thing, she thought. It was a question of personality, an aura of vibrant, sensual masculinity which was almost tangible, making the small living room seem cramped.
He said softly, ‘Why the hostility, Cass? Why the aggression? When other men have tried to get near you, you’ve always let them down lightly. What makes my treatment so different? From the moment you ran into my arms in that corridor, you looked as if you’d been poleaxed. All afternoon, I was watching those beautiful wounded eyes, and asking myself “Why?” I’m still wondering.’
‘Because for a moment you reminded me of my late husband,’ she said shortly. ‘Now, will you please go?’
The dark brows snapped together, and his mouth compressed tautly. He gave a short, unamused laugh. ‘I suppose I should have expected that. But I didn’t.’ He shook his head. ‘All right, Cass, I’ll go and leave you to convalesce in peace.’
At the front door, he paused, the lean tanned face sardonic. ‘Well, good evening, Ms Linton. It’s been—instructive, if nothing else. And I forgive you for lying to me about your marriage. Because, I have to confess, I lied to you too. I implied my dinner invitation had no sexual motive. It wasn’t true. I wanted to get you into bed, Cass. I still want to, and I will.’
Before she could guess his intention or take evasive action, he took her by the shoulders, pulling her towards him in one swift, effortless movement. She cried out, but the sound was instantly muffled under the brief, searing pressure of his mouth.
It was over almost at once. He smiled at her.
‘And sooner,’ he said softly, ‘rather than later. Sleep well, darling.’
And was gone.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_0898fed6-f0ad-52ab-9467-0df73d0ae65a)
CASS was still shaking two hours later, but from rage, she assured herself over and over again, not any other emotion.
She turned and punched savagely at an inoffensive sofa cushion. The sheer sexual arrogance of the creature. He clearly hadn’t listened to one word she’d said, so securely armoured in his own conceit that it made him deaf to any point of view but his own.
And when she got back to work, gallingly, she would have to maintain a surface civility towards him at least. Or she could go to Barney, and ask to be taken off the account, she thought frowningly, only that would involve her in all kinds of explanations, she would much prefer to avoid.
But there had to be some way to convince the Rohan Grants of this world that she was not just—there for the taking, the frustrated widow of joke and insinuation.
She hated milky drinks, but she made one for herself before she went to bed, in the hope that it would help her sleep, then lay tossing and turning until far into the night.
But contrary to all expectations, she felt fine when she woke the next morning. Perhaps temper had helped burn out the few remaining germs, she thought drily.
After breakfast, she went downstairs to collect Jodie.
‘I see your visitor was back,’ Mrs Barrett commented archly as she let Cass in.
Cass smiled coolly. ‘A little problem at work.’ And that was putting it mildly, she added silently.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ Mrs Barrett said, vexed. ‘You’d think they’d leave you alone when you’re poorly.’
‘There’s no justice, Mrs B.,’ Cass said cheerfully. ‘But I’ll take care it doesn’t happen again.’ And how.
Her reunion with her daughter was everything she could have desired. Until they got back to their own flat, that is.
‘Mrs Barrett’s nice,’ Jodie remarked. ‘She lets me watch unsuitable things on television. She calls it “the box”.’
Cass’s lip quivered. ‘How do you know they’re unsuitable, madam?’
‘Because you always change channels when they come on. You think I don’t notice, but I do,’ Jodie said serenely. ‘Is that man coming back?’
Cass’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What—man?’ She tried to sound casual.
‘The one who came to see you. Mrs Barrett said he came again yesterday.’ Jodie’s face was angelic. ‘Is he going to be my Daddy?’
‘No, he is not,’ Cass said forcibly.
Jodie gave a heavy sigh. ‘I liked him.’
Cass gave her a long look. ‘Jodie—you didn’t say anything to him, did you?’
‘What about?’ Jodie didn’t meet her gaze—a bad sign.
‘About being your Daddy,’ Cass said desperately.
The answer was too long in coming. ‘No-o-o,’ Jodie said, slowly and evasively.
‘Jodie,’ Cass threatened.
Her daughter’s mouth trembled. ‘He didn’t mind, Mummy. He wasn’t cross.’ She ventured an appealing look. ‘He laughed.’
‘I bet he’s never stopped,’ Cass said savagely. ‘What on earth possessed you?’ She sighed, running a distracted irritable hand through her hair. ‘Never—ever say such a thing to a visitor again.’
‘Mrs Barrett said he was your boyfriend.’
‘Well, Mrs Barrett was wrong,’ Cass said with unwonted sharpness. She saw Jodie flinch, and gentled her tone. ‘Sweetheart, he’s a client—a very important man at my work. Not Daddy material at all,’ she added, trying to make a belated joke of it all.
‘He said he’d be honoured,’ Jodie said mournfully.
Cass could have screamed.
She supposed reluctantly, thinking it over later, that it was to his credit that he’d been kind to the child—let her down lightly. But it didn’t make her like him any better, or add relish to the prospect of having to face him again.
She was quite well enough to return to work on Monday morning. Roger was also back, delighted at the acquisition of the Eve account, but far more interested, Cass thought amusedly, in the lingering symptoms of ‘flu which he was convinced still afflicted him.
And when he’d disposed regretfully of his various aches and pains, he then wanted to discuss Rohan Grant. Compared with whom, even Roger’s health was a more acceptable topic, Cass thought crossly.
She steeled herself to answer his questions coolly and concisely trying not to give any of her personal feelings away.
‘And you don’t like him,’ Roger said when she’d finished, proving that she was no actress.
‘Do I have to?’ Cass asked rather sourly. ‘I wasn’t too keen on Randy Sid, King of the Stainless Steel Sink either, but it made no difference to the campaign.’
‘So you’d put the high-flying Mr Grant in the same category, would you?’ Roger gave her a thoughtful glance. ‘What happened Cass? Don’t tell me he made a pass at you,’ he added grinning.
‘All right, I won’t.’ She made a business of searching in her desk drawer for something.
‘You mean he did?’ He sounded almost awed. ‘Dear God.’ He whistled. ‘The guy’s supposed to have an eye for women, but he must have laser vision if he could penetrate that battle dress top, and all the other ethnic layers you’re usually cocooned in. How do you turn him on, Cassie? With the dance of the seven Greenham Common ponchos?’
‘Very amusing.’ Cass slammed the drawer, narrowly missing removing her own finger in the process. ‘I had no idea that my love life, or lack of it, was of such consuming interest to everyone here.’
Roger said quietly, ‘Actually, I was joking, but if I’ve offended you, Cass, then I’m truly sorry.’ He paused. ‘Has it happened at last? Has someone—some man really got to you?’
‘No,’ she said controlledly. ‘Why do you ask?’
He shrugged. ‘Because it has to happen sometime.’ He frowned swiftly. ‘Yet not, I’d have thought, with Rohan Grant.’ He gave her a troubled look. ‘He’s the big league, Cass. His reputation says he likes to love them and leave them. Any relationship with him would be high on passion and good times, but lacking in anything else, including longevity.’
She smiled coolly. ‘My sentiments entirely, so I’m in no danger.’ She picked up some of the papers on her desk. ‘This fireplace company. It seems to me the designs they want to feature in their ads are the really ugly ones. How can we explain that tactfully?’
She was passing Accounts on her way out to lunch later when a man came out. She recognised him as the one who’d spoken to her about the bill for her dress at the lunch party, and spontaneously they smiled at each other. He fell in beside her.
‘Have you given it to the jumble sale yet?’
She laughed. ‘I’m waiting for a good cause.’ She was trying to remember his name. They’d been introduced when he joined Finiston Webber just before Christmas. Lloyd, she thought. That was it—Lloyd Haswell.
He said, ‘Where do you go for lunch?’
She shook her head. ‘I rarely do. I cook in the evenings for myself and my daughter, and I generally use my lunch hours for shopping.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I was going to ask you if you’d join me. There’s a pub I go to that does a marvellous steak and kidney pie. Unless, of course, you’re a vegetarian,’ he added doubtfully.
‘No,’ Cass said cheerfully. ‘I’m an unashamed carnivore still.’ She stole a fleeting look at him under her lashes. He was about her own age or slightly older, nice looking, slightly diffident in his manner. Almost as different from Rohan Grant as it was possible to get. She added, ‘Actually, I am quite hungry. I’m getting over ‘flu, and I haven’t felt like eating a great deal over the weekend.’
His face lit up. ‘Does that mean I have company?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ she returned gaily, refusing to feel guilty at his obvious pleasure. If the consensus of opinion was that she needed a man in her life, then she would have one, she decided coldly and clinically. Someone nice and inoffensive like this Lloyd, whom she could keep at arm’s length when it mattered. She wanted someone to be seen with; someone to convince Rohan Grant that he was wasting his time.
It might not be fair to Lloyd, she thought with compunction, but it wouldn’t do him any lasting damage either.
In the event, she found him good company, with a ready sense of humour. When he mentioned a new West End comedy, and said he was thinking of getting tickets, it was no hardship at all to agree to go with him.
They arrived back at the agency together, and she guessed that the news would spread rapidly. At one time she would have found this painful, but there were worse threats hovering over her now than a little office gossip.
When she got to her own office, Roger was there, just replacing the telephone receiver.
He said ‘McDowell’s been on from Eve.’ He paused. ‘He wanted to know if we’d definitely signed Tracey Kent for the perfume commercial.’
