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‘I presumed you’d chosen it specially to go with the image.’ Before he could react to the taunt, she drew back and, lifting her chin, said disdainfully, ‘If you’ll excuse me now? I’m feeling rather tired.’
Turning away, she was about to leave him standing when his hand shot out and closed round her wrist like a steel fetter.
She froze into immobility.
Silkily, he said, ‘I’ll see you back to your table, Miss Warrener.’ Releasing her wrist, he put a hand at her waist, his light, cool touch burning through the thin fabric of her dress like a brand.
Stephen rose to his feet as they approached, his brown eyes a little apprehensive, as if he half expected a ticking off for his guest’s unsociability.
Instead, Alexander Power said pleasantly, ‘I’ll be in your managing director’s office tomorrow morning at half-past eight. Come and see me there. You can give me a better idea of what exactly your team are doing. Goodnight, Leighton,’ then, with a slight inclination of his black, imperious head, ‘Au revoir, Miss Warrener.’
Why that deliberate au revoir? she wondered apprehensively, as Stephen gazed with a kind of pleased awe after the tall, striking man making his unhurried way back to the top table.
Concealing her disturbed state as best she could, she asked, ‘Would you mind very much if we left now?’
Stephen, who had been waiting for her to resume her seat, said with his usual good-natured compliance, ‘Not if you want to go.’ All the same, he looked disappointed.
Feeling guilty because she knew he was human enough to want to bask in the coveted glory of being singled out by the big boss, she explained, ‘I’ve got a nasty headache.’
He peered at her. ‘You do look rather pale.’ Putting an arm around her waist—his clumsy concern in direct contrast to that other light but sure touch—he shepherded her towards the door. ‘I’ll fetch the car round while you get your coat.’
Though she refused to look in his direction, Annis felt Zan Power’s predatory green-gold eyes fixed on her and an uncontrollable shudder ran through her slender frame.
As they left the sumptuous Piccadilly hotel and drove towards Belgravia, still on a high, Stephen marvelled, ‘Fancy Mr Power remembering me! He’s only seen me a couple of times, quite briefly. Of course he has a reputation for being a remarkable man…
‘You’d never think it, to meet him now and hear him speak, but he came originally from the back streets of Piraeus, with a Greek mother and an English father.’
So he was half Greek… That accounted not only for Zan Power’s looks but also for the almost imperceptible foreignness that lent such dark sorcery to his low-pitched voice.
But Stephen was going on, ‘His mother died when he was about eleven and his father returned to England with the five children of the marriage. When he was barely eighteen his father was killed in an accident. The Social Services were going to split the family up, but he fought like a demon to keep them together.
‘His brothers and sisters were all younger than him, but somehow he managed to support and educate them while he clawed his way to the top.’
Disturbed and agitated, unwilling to hear anything good about a man she detested, and aggravated by the open admiration, almost reverence, in Stephen’s voice, Annis said sharply, ‘If you’ve only met him twice, and briefly, I’m surprised he had time to tell you all that.’
Startled by her unusual irritability, Stephen explained sheepishly, ‘He didn’t tell me. One of the papers got hold of his life story. Zena Talgarth, the journalist who wrote it, described him as “a man’s man but a woman’s darling”.’
She was probably in bed with him at the time, Annis thought acidly. Aloud, she remarked, ‘I suppose cheap publicity and women fawning over him gives someone like Zan Power a kick… I feel sorry for his poor wife.’
Stephen shook his shaggy head. ‘He’s not married and never has been…’
Not married… Annis’s silky brows, several shades darker than her hair, drew together in a frown. She could have sworn that Maya, in one of her last incoherent ramblings, had talked about a wife and family…
‘…And according to the grapevine,’ Stephen went on, ‘he was furious about that newspaper article. He’s a man who guards and values his privacy.’ With a puzzled frown he added, ‘You don’t like him much, do you?’
‘My, aren’t you quick?’ she said sarcastically.
Seeing Stephen’s hurt expression, she was ashamed of herself. ‘I’m sorry, please forgive me.’ Then with magnificent understatement, ‘No, I don’t like him much.’
‘You must have been the only woman at that party who wouldn’t have willingly sacrificed her eye-teeth to dance with him.’
‘If that’s so, it’s a pity he gave me the privilege.’ Her tone was caustic.
‘What don’t you like about him?’
Unused to searching questions from Stephen, she hesitated before saying lamely, ‘He isn’t my type.’
‘I should have thought he was any woman’s type.’ Stephen sounded envious.
She shook her head decidedly. ‘He’s too good-looking, too sure of himself. Far too brash for my taste.’ Her voice rose a little. ‘I hate the Don Juan type who—’
‘He doesn’t have that kind of image.’ Looking a bit surprised by her vehemence, Stephen rushed to defend his hero. ‘Matt Gilvary, his right-hand man, does, or rather did, before he became Mr Power’s brother-in-law. They say he’s steadied down since he was married… But though Zan Power’s no saint,’ doggedly Stephen returned to the point he was making, ‘he’s certainly no Don Juan…’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake can we stop talking about the man?’ Annis burst out.
‘I’m sorry…’
Instantly contrite, she said, ‘No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight.’
Then, wanting to make up for blighting her companion’s happy mood, his pleasure in the evening, she added impulsively, ‘It’s just that I much prefer someone sweet and kind, like you.’
Thrilled at being compared favourably with a man of Zan Power’s ilk, Stephen was still preening himself when, a few minutes later, they stopped in front of Fairfield Court, the three-storey brick building that housed Annis’s ground-floor flat.
Knowing it gave him a kick, made him feel manly to cosset her, she unfastened her safety belt and waited until he opened her door and helped her alight.
As she stepped out on to the pavement a stylish silver BMW, which had been cruising a couple of cars behind them, drew up in a patch of shadow outside the block opposite.
Having crossed Fairfield’s narrow, open frontage with its pair of leafless weeping willows, she opened the door while Stephen hovered by her elbow, his burgundy silk evening scarf hanging loosely around his neck.
Politeness forcing her, she asked, ‘Would you like a quick coffee?’
‘Love one,’ he accepted cheerfully.
Ashamed, because she’d been hoping he would refuse, she switched on the light and led the way into a pastel-walled living-room which held the minimum of modern furniture.
In no mood for him to linger, she made a single mug of instant coffee, strong and milky and sweet, just how he liked it, and carried it through.
He looked surprised. ‘Aren’t you having one?’
‘When I’m headachy, coffee only makes it worse. I’ll have some cocoa when I go to bed.’ And please let it be soon, she prayed silently.
Patting the empty place beside him, he invited, ‘Why don’t you come and sit by me and relax for a while? It isn’t eleven yet.’
Carefully, she said, ‘I know it’s not late, but I’m feeling rotten…’
‘I’m sorry… I wasn’t thinking.’ He downed his coffee in a few gulps and, scrambling hurriedly to his feet, made for the door. ‘I’m nothing but a stupid oaf.’
‘You’re a dear.’ In the open doorway she stood on tiptoe to touch her lips to his cheek.
His ears turning bright red, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her with clumsy fervour.
Though awkward, his kiss wasn’t unpleasant, and she stood quietly in his embrace for a few seconds before gently freeing herself.
‘I’ll call you some time tomorrow,’ he promised, and shambled to his car.
With the utmost relief, Annis closed the door and locked up.
Wanting only the oblivion of sleep, she hurried to get ready for bed, trying not to think of Zan Power. But, filling her mind with an overwhelming hatred, his powerful presence was there, all invasive, his darkly handsome face printed indelibly on her retinas.
As it had been since the first moment she’d set eyes on him more than three years ago.
Then he’d been responsible for destroying almost everything she’d held dear.
For months she’d been obsessed with thoughts of him and, harbouring a fierce need for revenge, had wanted him to suffer as he’d caused her and her family to suffer.
Her anger, her bitter animosity towards the man she’d caught only the one fleeting glimpse of had been so strong, so all-consuming, that it had taken her a long time to wake up to the fact that if she allowed such feelings to go on he’d end up destroying her too.
Making a valiant effort, she’d pushed him to the back of her mind, caused his image to fade, started to win the struggle to put the past behind her.
Until tonight.
Coming face to face with him again out of the blue had brought all the old torment and bitterness flooding back. Undone, in a split-second, everything she’d achieved in the preceding months.
It had also brought her a new and frightening anxiety. Was his stated intention to own her just some macho game? Or had she reason to feel afraid, menaced?
Her head was aching to such an extent that it was difficult to think clearly. But surely in the cold light of day his threat would just seem ridiculous?
She was brushing out the heavy silk hair which fell almost to her waist, gripping the brush until her knuckles showed white, when the doorbell pealed, startling her.
The thought that maybe Linda had gone into labour and Richard needed her to look after the twins sent her hurrying into the living-room.
Though surely he’d have rung her?
As she hesitated, she spotted Stephen’s burgundy scarf lying on the settee, and picked it up with an exasperated sigh. The light was still on so he would know she wasn’t yet in bed. Though why on earth he’d bothered to come back for it…!
A quick glance through the central peephole proved her conjecture right, providing a glimpse of white evening shirt-front and black bow-tie.
She pressed up the catch and unfastened the safety chain, but what she’d been about to say died on her lips as, shock exploding inside her, she gaped at the man filling her threshold.
Before she could make any attempt to collect her scattered wits he’d walked past her as if he owned the place and closed the door behind him.
Looming tall and decidedly dangerous, those amazing green-gold eyes with their thick sooty lashes fixed on her, Zan Power dominated the small room.
Tossing the scarf aside, she asked jerkily, ‘What are you doing here? What do you want?’
His eyes holding hers, he smiled without answering. The irresistible allure of that smile and the certain knowledge that what he wanted was her threw her totally.
Panic-stricken, she cried, ‘Get out! Go on, get out before I call the police.’
Raising narrow black brows, he stood aside so she could get to the phone. ‘Call them, by all means. But what will you tell them? How will you justify such an extreme course of action?’
She stood, trembling in every limb, while her common sense told her she had lost her head and behaved stupidly, given him an added advantage.
Somehow she reined in the runaway panic and, slowly unclenching her hands, admitted, ‘I’m afraid I over-reacted. But you took me by surprise.’
When he made no comment, just continued to stand and look at her, she added awkwardly, ‘It’s getting late and I was about to go to bed.’
She wished she hadn’t said that when his eyes travelled assessingly over her fine Victorian-style cotton nightdress with its long sleeves and high neck, the smooth hair tumbling down her back like pale silk, the bare feet.
His inspection completed, he smiled mockingly. ‘Don’t worry, you’re quite decent.’ Then, briskly, ‘I want to talk to you.’
Zan Power’s voice, clear and low-pitched, with that very faint accent which lent it such devilish charm, sent shivers running up and down her spine.
Pressing slim fingers to her throbbing temples, she waited.
He indicated a chair. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ It was an order in spite of the polite phrasing.
Clearly he intended the tête-à-tête…confrontation…whatever, to be on his terms.
Recognising the futility of trying to oppose him, she sat down, deliberately choosing a different chair.
Amusement flickered briefly in the tawny eyes, before he queried, ‘Where do you keep your aspirin?’
She was surprised into answering, ‘In the bathroom cabinet.’
‘You haven’t taken any?’
‘No.’
Without a word he disappeared through the partly open door to return a few moments later with half a tumbler of water and two round white tablets, which he transferred from his palm to hers.
‘I can tell by the tension in your neck and shoulders that you’ve got a headache.’ Handing her the tumbler, he continued with wry humour, ‘I could get rid of it with a few minutes’ massage, but after your earlier reaction I hesitate to lay a finger on you, even for therapeutic purposes.’
Thank God for that, she thought fervently, swallowing the tablets. She couldn’t bear the thought of him touching her.
For more than one reason.
Despite her hatred of him, like some beautiful but deadly snake he fascinated and attracted her. If he touched her…kissed her…she might be caught body and soul in his coils, unable to free herself ever again from that dark enchantment.
She shuddered.
Taking a grip on sanity, she pushed the fanciful notion away and told herself scathingly not to be an idiot.
‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ Without waiting for an answer, he took a seat opposite.
Unnerved afresh by his calm deliberation, the way his gaze never left her face, she said, ‘You wanted to talk to me?’ Then, with a sudden jolt, ‘How did you know where I lived?’
Coolly he admitted, ‘I followed Leighton’s car.’
