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‘You have a disconcerting streak of romanticism!’
She blushed. She always tried to hide it; it didn’t go down well in banking circles, for one thing, and, for another, it had led her into a painful love-affair and left her with a broken heart and bitter disillusion.
‘I suppose it was something along those lines, though,’ Charles shrugged. ‘My parents exchanged Christmas cards with Aunt Una but they never visited Switzerland, and Aunt Una never came back to England. This big gulf opened up between them.’
‘How sad!’ It seemed pretty childish to Martine, but the things people did to each other often were, she thought.
Charles sighed. ‘It is really, isn’t it? Sad and very stupid. When my parents died I lost contact with Aunt Una altogether, but she died a few years ago, and Bruno wrote to tell me. I happened to be going to Switzerland on that banking commission tour so I looked him up while I was there, and I liked him.’
‘Does he know you’ve made him your main beneficiary?’ Martine shrewdly asked.
Charles gave her an amused look. ‘Not yet.’
Martine’s eyes narrowed speculatively. This Bruno Falcucci might not know yet that Charles had left the Redmond share of the bank to him, but he would know that Charles was unmarried and had no other heir, and, if he was shrewd, as he probably was if he was a senior bank executive, he would probably have worked out that he had a chance of persuading Charles to leave him some money.
‘Did you invite him to come to London, or is he here off his own bat?’
‘He rang me last week to say he had to come to London on business,’ Charles informed her, still looking amused. ‘What a suspicious little mind you’ve got!’
‘I didn’t say a word!’
‘You don’t need to! I can read your thoughts—after all, I know you very well, Martine.’ He looked down into her green eyes and they exchanged an intimate, laughing look.
At that instant somebody strolled up to the table and Charles glanced round, exclaimed, stood up, holding out his hand, his drawn and tired face lighting up.
‘Ah, there you are, Bruno! I was beginning to think you had forgotten all about tonight!’
‘I’ve been looking forward to the evening all week,’ a deep, cool voice drawled.
Martine sat there transfixed, her mouth open and her nerves in shreds. It would be him, wouldn’t it?
Of all the men in the world, she had had to pick on Bruno Falcucci to take an instant dislike to! It hadn’t occurred to her for an instant that the man she had got stuck in the revolving door with might be the man she and Charles were waiting for.
Charles was smiling, gesturing to include her in the circle. ‘Bruno, I want you to meet my right hand—Martine Archer, my personal assistant for the last four years.’
Martine numbly held out her hand.
Bruno Falcucci took it, his powerful tanned fingers swallowing up her small, pale ones.
She risked a glance upwards. His black eyes coldly mocked her. He said something polite and distant. She answered with equal remoteness. He released her hand.
‘Sit down, have a drink; their whisky is very good,’ Charles told him.
‘I don’t drink spirits.’ He looked at Martine’s glass. ‘Is that mineral water? I’ll have the same, thank you.’
‘I’d forgotten you don’t drink,’ Charles said, made a face.
‘Like your assistant here, I like to keep a cool head,’ Bruno Falcucci drawled, and Martine gave him a flicking glance. Oh, very funny! she thought.
Charles ordered the drink, adding, ‘And bring the menus, Jimmy, will you? Now, Bruno, what sort of business brings you to London?’
‘Banking,’ the answer smoothly came.
Charles laughed. ‘Of course. Is it confidential? Shall we change the subject?’
‘I can’t talk in detail about it, I’m afraid. You may read about it in the financial Press some time, but not yet.’
‘Well, how long do you plan to stay? Can you tell us that?’
‘A week, maybe two. Then I might take a holiday—fly on to Greece, perhaps, or even as far as the Caribbean. I want to relax for a while, unwind, get some sun before I go back to work.’
‘You have an amazing tan already!’ said Charles. ‘Don’t you think so, Martine?’
She gave another brief glance in Bruno Falcucci’s direction; let her lids droop indifferently over her eyes again. ‘Amazing,’ she said offhandedly.
She felt Bruno looking at her closely, considering her rich auburn hair, the fine-boned face with the warm, curved mouth and fierce green eyes, before running his gaze down over her body in arrogant appraisal.
Her flush deepened and she felt the back of her neck prickle.
‘Where do you go for a holiday?’ he asked her.
She shrugged, reluctant to answer.
‘Oh, Martine doesn’t like hot countries,’ Charles answered for her. ‘Like most redheads, her wonderful skin doesn’t like too much sun. But we had a terrific time in Sweden last summer, didn’t we, Martine? And Switzerland was fun a couple of years ago.’
‘Especially the après-ski, no doubt,’ Bruno drawled.
He was making no attempt to hide what he was thinking, his gaze flicking from her to Charles and back again, glinting with cynicism.
He suspected her of having an affair with Charles, she realised. He couldn’t be serious! Charles was almost old enough to be her father!
Oh, he was still very good-looking in a weary way, but he had no energy, his hair was thinning and turning silver, his elegant, fine-cut features had a distinct look of strain. She was deeply fond of Charles, she felt sorry for him; but that was all. She resented Bruno Falcucci’s speculative stare, the cool cynicism in his eyes.
The head waiter arrived. ‘Have you chosen yet, sir?’ he asked Charles, who looked at the others.
‘I’m ready to order—how about you two?’
Martine nodded. So did Bruno.
She chose melon and sole with a salad; Bruno chose melon, too, with prosciutto, followed by a steak, also with a salad; and Charles ordered melon followed by an omelette with a salad. He ate almost nothing these days. He would probably just pick at his food.
While they waited to be told their table was ready Charles and Bruno talked about the international banking situation. Martine listened intently, absorbing with a faint dismay the fact of Bruno Falcucci’s swift, hard intelligence. Charles knew what he was talking about, but he was like a machine running on half-power lately—he kept fading, losing interest, missing vital points. She began to suspect that Bruno could run rings around him.
There was no doubt about it. The man was potentially lethal. And she had a sinking feeling that Charles wouldn’t listen if she tried to warn him, would just laugh at her.
The head waiter came back, smiling. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Mr Redmond...’
‘Shall we go in?’ suggested Charles, rising. Martine got to her feet. He put a hand under her arm in a gallant gesture, to which she submitted, smiling at him, her eyes affectionate. He was always chivalrous, an old-fashioned man in many ways; she liked that.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Bruno Falcucci’s face: jet eyes watching her with sardonic amusement, mouth wry. Martine’s smile stiffened into anger. It was going to be an ordeal to sit through a meal with that man across the table. She wished she couldn’t read his mind so clearly, but it was as if his thoughts leapt across the table to her—or maybe he was actually allowing her, or willing her, to pick up what he was thinking!
Yet why should he? She frowned, letting Charles steer her into the dining-room. Her imagination was really working overtime, surely? She was building Bruno Falcucci up into some sort of bogeyman!
She was seated between the two men at the table, but from then on she turned all her attention, and her body, towards Charles, practically ignoring the other man except when she had no option.
Bruno Falcucci leaned back in his chair, a brooding presence, watching her out of narrowed eyes, physically dominating the circle they made: herself, Charles and him, around this table, with his wide black-clad shoulders, his deep chest and hard face.
Charles dominated the talking, though, and was too absorbed in his favourite subject, international finance, to be aware of the silent duel going on across the white-damask-covered table with its spray of dark red roses in the centre. The dining-room was shadowy, and a softly shaded lamp gave them exactly enough light in which the table glittered with crystal glass, silver cutlery and fine bone china and their faces glowed, now in shadow, now in light, like shifting masks.
It was towards the end of the meal that Charles finally asked Bruno Falcucci the question Martine knew he had been planning to put to him.
‘How would you feel about leaving your present job, Bruno, and coming to work for us in a rather more senior position?’
If Bruno was surprised he didn’t show it. There was a beat of time when he just sat there, as if absorbing the possibilities, then he calmly said, ‘That’s a very flattering offer, Charles. I would need to know precisely what you had in mind, of course, and I’d need time to think it over, but in principle I’m certainly interested.’
Charles beamed. ‘I hoped you would be. You wouldn’t regret the decision if you accepted, Bruno, I promise you that. You could have a splendid future with us, far more exciting than anything you have in prospect at the moment. Ours is a family bank and you are my only male relative.’
He shouldn’t be stating the situation quite so frankly. He was betraying the weakness of his position, Martine thought, watching Bruno Falcucci closely, her green eyes sharp and hostile.
He was watching Charles, and his face was a polite mask. Martine would have given a good deal to know what he was thinking, whether he was excited, triumphant, elated. He gave no clues.
‘I’ll get Martine to put together a proposition for you, setting out all the terms,’ Charles promised as he called for the bill. ‘And after you’ve had time to digest the contents, we can talk it over. I’m going to be frank with you—I think your mother should have been provided for in her father’s will; she should have had shares in the bank.’
Bruno nodded. ‘She should.’
There was a ruthless set to his jaw, the spark of anger in his black eyes. If Charles thought Bruno did not resent the way his mother had been treated, he was clearly wrong. Bruno resented it bitterly. Martine shivered. She hoped Charles hadn’t made a fatal mistake. Yet what threat could Bruno present to him? Charles owned a majority of the shares in the bank; Bruno couldn’t hurt him.
Charles smiled at him, apparently blithely unaware of the dark feeling in the younger man. ‘I want to make up for the past, Bruno. I want you in the family business, where you belong.’
Martine shifted restlessly, frowning. Haven’t you got eyes? she wanted to ask Charles. Can’t you see what he’s like under the good looks and the formal good manners?
Bruno flicked one of those brief, cold glances her way. Charles might not be picking up her agitation, but Bruno Falcucci was, and her dismay didn’t bother him. He looked into her eyes, then away, one black brow curling sardonically.
A hard spot of red burnt in her cheeks. She knew what that lifted eyebrow had said. She might oppose him but she wouldn’t be a problem, he could deal with her.
Well, that was what he thought! They would see about that.
Charles signed the bill, folded some notes into the leather wallet in which the bill had arrived, and stood up, yawning, looking suddenly drained and white.
‘I’m sorry, Martine,’ he said in a wearily apologetic voice. ‘I’d planned to drive you home myself, but I’m barely able to stay on my feet—will you be very cross if I just put you into a taxi back to Chelsea?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she began, but Bruno interrupted.
‘I have my car parked outside; I’ll drop her off.’
‘I thought you said you were staying at the Savoy? There’s no need to drive out to Chelsea, I can easily get a taxi.’ Martine certainly didn’t want him driving her home. The very idea of being alone with the man even for five minutes sent shivers down her spine.
‘It’s still early. I would enjoy a drive along the river,’ he shrugged.
Charles beamed. ‘And you can get to know each other! That’s a wonderful idea, I should have thought of it myself. Martine is indispensable to me, Bruno. She can tell you all you need to know about the way the bank runs.’
His car was parked across the street. As he began to walk towards it Martine caught Bruno Falcucci’s secret smile, and tensed. If she hadn’t known how it would upset Charles she would have slapped his face.
Turning away, she walked with Charles to his car, watching him with concern.
‘You look quite ill, Charles. You’ve been working too hard for far too long. I think you need a long holiday. Why don’t you take a few days off work and get away?’
‘I will, soon,’ he said quietly, bent and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re my guardian angel—don’t think I’m not aware of it. Now, be nice to Bruno. I want him to join us, Martine, sell the bank to him. I’ve done some quiet research on him and he has quite a record, he’s pulled off some brilliant deals. Even if he wasn’t family, I’d want him, but as he is a Redmond, even though his name is different, I’m determined to get him by hook or by crook.’
‘Well, in that case I’ll do what I can,’ she promised as Charles got behind the wheel of his silver Rolls. She meant what she said, despite her private reservations about the man. She would certainly sell the bank to Bruno Falcucci, but she doubted if it would be necessary. She had the feeling no persuasion would be required to get him to join them. He had always planned to do so.
Charles smiled at her through the window as he started the softly purring engine.
‘I know I can always trust you. Goodnight, Martine, see you tomorrow.’
He drove off and she turned to find Bruno Falcucci right behind her, lounging against a long, sleek, vintage black Rolls-Bentley. It was one of the loveliest cars she had ever seen; her mouth watered at the sight of it. She loved old cars.
He opened the passenger door, his body graceful as he held the door for her. ‘Where am I to take you?’
‘Do you know Chelsea?’ she curtly asked, having already discovered that he had been to London a number of times.
He nodded. ‘Vaguely. I make for Parliament Square and head off along the Embankment, right?’
She nodded. ‘I live a stone’s throw from the Tate Gallery, I’ll guide you after we get to Millbank.’
She slid into the Bentley’s interior, instinctively stroking the soft, pale cream leather seats, giving the dashboard an appreciative inspection.
‘Is this yours, or have you borrowed or hired it?’ she asked as Bruno got in beside her.
His tanned hands lightly holding the wheel he turned his black head and gave her a long, cool look.
‘It’s mine. I just bought it.’
It must have cost a fortune; she wondered how much he earned a year to be able to afford a toy like this. Well, she would find out soon, when he and Charles began negotiations.
‘You aren’t married, Mr Falcucci?’
He shook his head, that sardonic smile in evidence again.
‘Have you ever been?’ she asked.
‘No, have you?’
‘No,’ she said tersely.
‘You’re a devoted secretary, though,’ he drawled. ‘Lucky Charles.’
He turned his head again, deliberately, to meet her stare and Martine let all her dislike and distrust of him show in her face.
