War of Love

by Carole Mortimer

  The look of supreme satisfaction on the face of the elderly man as he sat in the chair Silke's mother had so recently fled from—to where?—was almost painful to see, Henry relaxing back in the leather chair with a relieved sigh, his eyes closed, his thoughts goodness knew where. Silke intended finding out exactly where as soon as she could find her mother—if she hadn't done one of her flits again. And, knowing her mother as well as she did, Silke wouldn't put that past her, either!

  But for the moment she put thoughts of her mother to the back of her mind, concentrating on what she had to do here and now—and that was telephone Lyon Buchanan!

  The telephone number of Buchanan's was in the file on her mother's desk, the switchboard immedi­ately putting her call through to Lyon Buchanan's secretary.

  'Could I ask the reason for the call?' the woman asked warily once Silke had identified herself.

  She wouldn't put it past Lyon Buchanan to have instructed his secretary to vet any calls from Jordan's Miracles! 'It's personal,' she snapped unhelpfully, feeling immediately guilty for allowing her re­sentment towards Lyon Buchanan to affect her re­sponse as she glanced across the room and saw how pale and haggard Henry still looked. 'I have to talk to Mr Buchanan immediately,' she added more urgently.

  There was a click, a short pause—very short!—and then the arrogantly sure voice Silke recognised only too well came on the line. 'I thought we had con­cluded our earlier—conversation, Miss Jordan,' Lyon Buchanan drawled contemptuously.

  Silke still cringed when she thought of that double-edged conversation, wishing now that she had never engaged in such a futile verbal battle with this par­ticular man. It had been an act of bravado on her part, not to say childish, and it made talking to him now all the more difficult. 'It's Henry,' she said without preamble—she still didn't know the surname of the elderly man, and at the moment he didn't look capable of telling it to her. 'He's collapsed again, and-----'

  'My God,' Lyon Buchanan exploded. 'What have you done to him now?'

  Her cheeks burned with indignation. 'I haven't done anything to him!' Henry was actually asleep at the moment. 'He-----'

  'Where are you?' Lyon Buchanan interrupted harshly.

  'At the agency. But-----'

  'I'm on my way,' he told her coldly. 'Just don't do anything else to him before I get there!' He slammed his receiver down, the noise resounding in Silke's ear.

  Silke slammed her own receiver down too—and then glanced guiltily at Henry. But he continued to sleep— thank goodness.

  Just what did the Lyon think she had 'done' to his uncle? Remembering the conversation they had had earlier, she could make a pretty accurate guess. My God, the arrogance of the man; did he really think that because she had denied being an out-of-work ac­tress her other line of business had to be... ? He did think that, she was sure of it from his tone of voice just now. He probably believed his uncle had col­lapsed again because they had been-----Arrogant, ar­rogant swine!

  She could not remember ever feeling this angry in her life before, not even once she had got over the initial pain of James's defection on the eve of their wedding. And it was an anger that didn't lessen as the time ticked by!

  'You look just like your mother when you're angry, my dear.'

  Silke looked sharply across the room at Henry, a blush darkening her cheeks now as she realised he had woken up and had obviously been watching her for some time.

  She drew in a deeply controlling breath. 'I probably feel like her when I'm angry too!' she told him with feeling.

  'Lyon has that effect on people,' he nodded, sobering slightly, a little colour having returned to his cheeks after his ten-minute nap. 'I remember I used to make your mother angry a lot,' he said heavily. 'Do you think she'll come back?' He looked long­ingly towards the door where her mother had so re­cently fled.

  Silke sighed as she moved to his side, offering no objection as he lightly clasped her hand as he had the last time. 'I'm really not sure,' she answered him honestly. 'My mother has always been a law unto herself.' She grimaced as she remembered the chaotic years of her early childhood, when she had never been quite sure what her mother might do.

  Henry gave a half-smile. 'I remember that too,' he nodded.

  Despite the fact that she realised how ill this man was, Silke's curiosity momentarily got the better of her. 'How-----?' She broke off abruptly as the office door burst open without warning, her initial hope that it might be her mother immediately dashed as Lyon Buchanan strode purposefully into the room.

  He came to an abrupt halt just inside the door, taking in the scene with one cold glance, his narrowed gaze raking scathingly over Silke's hand so cosily en­folded in his uncle's much larger one.

  Silke's initial reaction was to pull her hand sharply away, but at the first sign that she was about to do that Henry's hand tightened its grip. She looked down at him, knowing by his determined expression that he wasn't about to release her without a fuss. And that she could do without!

  Instead she turned her frustrated anger on Lyon Buchanan—he was the reason for it anyway! 'What did you do?' she said scathingly. 'Fly here?' She re­turned his gaze as challengingly as he was now looking at her.

  'Almost,' he bit out grimly, his attention turning to his uncle, although the older man was obviously slightly recovered now. 'When are you going to re­alise you're nearly seventy years old?' Lyon said impatiently.

  'Sixty-seven, boy,' his uncle returned with some of his earlier spirit. 'And don't worry, I've just decided I'm going to be around for a lot more years yet.' His softened gaze rested on Silke after he had made this statement.

  Lyon Buchanan's hard gaze returned to her too, a sharp questioning in those icy eyes as he took in the blush that seemed to be becoming a permanent fixture in Silke's usually creamy cheeks. 'Indeed?' he finally bit out tersely. 'Well, I think we should get you to Peter Carruthers and let him decide that, don't you?' he said scathingly. 'Can you walk, or shall I-----?'

  'I can walk,' his uncle assured him firmly. 'And I want Silke to come with me.'

  Now it was Silke's turn to look at him sharply. She was worried about him herself, and, much as she would have hated having to contact Lyon Buchanan again, she had intended telephoning him later to assure herself that his uncle was indeed OK. But she hadn't considered actually going along with Henry to see his doctor!

  'Now that I've found you, I'm not going to let you out of my sight again until we've talked further. I'm sure you can guess why,' Henry told her ruefully.

  Because of her mother. 'Satin' had run away, but he had no intention of letting her daughter escape as easily. And if Silke was honest she was more than a little curious to know more about 'Hal' and 'Satin' herself!

  But she could see from Lyon Buchanan's furious expression, and the angry glitter in his eyes, that he had completely misread the situation—and that he didn't like his conclusions one little bit! Well, Silke didn't give a damn how he felt about it; she would accompany Henry!

  'Of course I'll come with you.' She squeezed the elderly man's hand reassuringly. No matter how much Lyon Buchanan might hate it!

  And as they helped Henry out of the office and down to Lyon Buchanan's car—parked illegally on double yellow lines; what else?—it was obvious how much he did hate Silke's presence there, his eyes glit­tering down coldly at her as they stood either side of Henry to help him down the stairs and out into the street. And his face was set in grimly disapproving lines as Henry insisted he wanted Silke to sit beside him in the back of the silver Mercedes.

  'You'll have more room to make yourself comfortable if Miss Jordan sits in the front next to me,' he told his uncle harshly, somehow managing to infuse a wealth of contempt into the 'Miss Jordan'.

  Making Silke feel like kicking him up the seat of his tailored trousers! In fact, the temptation was so strong that she had to turn her attention firmly to Henry to actually stop herself carrying out the action. 'I think, in this case, your nephew is probably right,' she
told the elderly man gently, seeing an answering humour in Henry's eyes as his lips twitched in ap­preciation of her insertion of 'in this case'. But, as far as she was concerned, Lyon Buchanan was wrong about most other things; he was a man who made assumptions and then acted upon them. 'It isn't far, is it?' she prompted the arrogant man as she climbed into the passenger seat, concerned at how white Henry now looked as he slumped down in the back seat.

  'Not too far,' Lyon replied tersely, slamming her car door closed to stride purposefully around to the driver's side of the powerful vehicle.

  There was a husky chuckle from the back seat. 'I haven't seen him this angry in years,' Henry mused softly.

  She turned to look at him. 'That's probably be­cause he's been surrounded by "yes-men"—and women!—for years!' She scowled.

  Henry raised grey brows. 'There's no danger of that from you, is there?' he said with satisfaction.

  'None at all,' she assured him firmly, turning back in her seat as Lyon climbed in beside her.

  There was an instant tension in the interior of the car that hadn't been there seconds earlier; the very air seemed charged with the electricity of resentment that flowed between Silke and Lyon. His expression was grim as he manoeuvred the car out into the flow of traffic, his mouth set in disapproving lines, dark brows frowning over those icy grey eyes.

  And then Silke noticed his hands. They were long and slender, almost artistic-looking. Even the fact that the nails were kept cut practically short couldn't de­tract from the fact that Lyon Buchanan's hands were long and tapered—and beautiful.

  Silke looked quickly away as she realised how rid­iculous her thoughts had been, a blush to her cheeks. There was nothing beautiful about Lyon Buchanan. He was arrogant. And cold. Contemptuous of his fellow man—and woman. Especially woman, from her own experience with him. It couldn't be her per­sonally that he disliked; he didn't even know her.

  She didn't know him either, but then she didn't want to!

  She just wouldn't look at his hands again...

  'Could you check to see if he's just fallen asleep or if he's had another attack?' Lyon spoke abruptly at her side, startling her.

  She turned quickly to look at Henry. The elderly man was slumped right down on the back seat now, his eyes closed. With a slight adjustment of her seatbelt she was able to reach far enough back to check the pulse at Henry's wrist. It was steady and strong. 'He's asleep,' she replied, with some relief, as she turned back in her seat.

  Lyon's cold grey gaze raked over her briefly before his attention returned to negotiating the traffic. 'You do realise I shall want a full explanation from you about what happened,' he bit out harshly.

  Silke gasped indignantly at the accusation in his voice. 'I told you-----'

  'Not now,' he told her grimly. 'I want to make sure Henry is going to be all right first.'

  Before he verbally ripped her to shreds! He hadn't actually said that, but the implication was definitely there in his voice.

  Silke's mouth firmed with stubborn determination as she stared straight ahead during the rest of the drive. She would stay only long enough to make sure Henry was going to be all right too—and then she was leaving! Without talking to Lyon Buchanan. She had nothing to 'explain'!

  Peter Carruthers' clinic was exactly that sort of private place she would have expected Lyon Buchanan to take his uncle—expensive, too, Silke would guess from its appearance. And just the appearance of the arrogant millionaire was enough to make the staff jump into action. Peter Carruthers himself was with Henry in the short few minutes it took for one of the nurses to tell him of their arrival.

  Silke took herself off to the plush waiting-room, feeling completely superfluous as Lyon Buchanan ac­companied his uncle for the examination without giving her a backward glance. But she couldn't dis­appear completely—much as she would like to— without first making sure Henry was going to recover fully.

  Even the waiting-room reflected the wealth of the people who obviously visited this clinic: fresh coffee percolating on the side, bone-china cups, a jug of fresh cream set on the table beside it. Even the magazines on the low table in front of the comfortable leather armchairs were current issues—unlike the ancient ones usually found in clinics and hospital waiting-rooms.

  As Silke helped herself to some of the aromatic coffee she decided it was probably the least comfort the consultant could provide for the exuberant fees he no doubt charged his patients!

  To her dismay Lyon Buchanan entered the room just as she was sitting down with her coffee, and some of the hot brew spilled over into the china saucer as she looked up and saw him. Surely Henry hadn't been examined already... ?

  'Peter can do his job better without me present,' Lyon Buchanan informed her tersely as he helped himself to the coffee.

  Silke could have done her waiting better alone too— but obviously she didn't have the same authority to request it as the consultant had!

  She eyed Lyon warily as he poured his coffee, not in the least surprised when he shunned both the cream and sugar—both of which she had helped herself to a liberal amount of seconds ago! Obviously Lyon didn't have the same sweet tooth she did. In fact, if she was honest, she had probably eaten more of those free chocolate bunnies herself this morning than she had actually given away!

  She could feel her tension rising as, after pouring the coffee, he moved across the room to sit down, sipping the steaming hot brew, all without saying a word. And in the circumstances her tension was rid­iculous; she had nothing to feel in the least guilty about where this man was concerned. Except wear the wrong bunny outfit to work in his store, and she didn't consider that her fault either!

  'How is Henry?' She decided to take the initiative as the silence became more and more fraught with tension—on her part!—the longer it went on. 'I'm sorry, I still don't know his surname,' she added awk­wardly as dark brows rose over icy grey eyes.

  Lyon's mouth thinned even more at the admission. 'You didn't get as far as exchanging last names?' His contempt was obvious.

  Her eyes flashed angrily at his implication. For God's sake, Henry was old enough to be her grandfather!

  'It's Winter,' Lyon supplied abruptly. 'Obviously Peter is going to do the appropriate tests, but he seems to think Henry will be fine after a few days in bed.'

  Silke was relieved; she had become quite fond of the elderly man in the short time she had known him. And, if what she suspected about Henry and her mother was true, then her mother had once been more than fond of him!

  'Alone,' Lyon added harshly before she could make any response.

  Her eyes widened with indignation. 'Now look-----'

  'I told you before—I have,' he drawled hardly, leaning forward to put his empty cup down on the table, his scathing gaze never leaving her angrily flushed face.

  'And I don't meet your "requirements",' Silke re­called dismissively.

  He gave an acknowledging inclination of his head. 'But obviously you meet my uncle's,' he said disgustedly.

  She shook her head at the arrogant assumption of this man. She had never met anyone quite like him before! 'Do you think this badly of everyone you meet, Mr Buchanan?' she challenged scornfully. 'Or am I just the lucky one?'

  The look he gave her was scathing in the extreme. 'Women like you make me-----'

  ' "Women like me"?' This time her indignation got the better of her as she sat ramrod-straight in the edge of her chair.

  '—sick,' he finished disgustedly, as if she hadn't just interrupted him, standing up as he did so, im­mediately dominating the room with his superior height. Although this man didn't need his height, or his muscular build, to achieve that; he had an aura of power that would be apparent no matter what he looked like. 'What on earth do you think you're doing with a man as old as Henry?' He stood over her now, his close proximity threatening, his expression coldly furious.

  'I-----'

  'Lyon, do you think we could talk now?' inter­rupted the quietly authoritative voi
ce of Peter Carruthers.

  Lyon turned sharply to face the other man, and as Silke turned to look at him too, his expression inno­cently enquiring, she couldn't help wondering how much of their conversation he had actually overheard before interrupting them; their voices hadn't exactly been discreetly lowered! And as the consultant looked at her speculatively, Silke knew he had overheard far too much for her to feel comfortable remaining here any longer!

  She stood up decisively. 'I think I'll leave now. As long as Hen—Mr Winter is going to be all right?' Now that she knew the elderly man's surname it sounded inappropriate—to her at least!—to call him by any­thing else. She could feel Lyon Buchanan's con­temptuous gaze upon her, but she ignored that in favour of looking at Peter Carruthers for his answer.

  The consultant gave her a politely reassuring smile. 'He's going to be fine,' he nodded non-committally.

  That was good enough for Silke. She had done her bit as far as she was concerned, had accompanied Henry here as he had wanted her to; she had no in­tention of hanging around to listen to more of Lyon Buchanan's insults! 'I'll telephone later and check on his condition, if that's OK,' she told Peter Carruthers, totally ignoring the brooding figure of Lyon Buchanan; she felt as if, if she looked at him again, she might give in to that impulse she had had earlier to kick him anywhere she could reach!

  'Of course,' the consultant returned smoothly. 'And your name is?'

  Of course, the staff at this clinic wouldn't give out information on one of the patients here to just anyone. 'Silke Jordan,' she supplied stiltedly, still ignoring Lyon Buchanan's gaze, but easily able to guess at the contempt she would see in his face towards her if she should chance a glance at him; the damned man never seemed to look at her in any other way!

  But, with the opinion he had of her relationship with his uncle, that wasn't surprising. How she would love to wipe that superior smile off his face—the only problem was, she never would, because he was never going to believe anything she told him.

  'Miss Jordan,' Peter Carruthers answered her. 'We'll expect your call,' he nodded.