The Threat of Love

by Charlotte Lamb

  Lady Westbrook was oddly familiar to her; for a second Caro was thrown by the resemblance to Gil Martell—those dark eyes, the long nose and autocratic air all looked somehow different on a woman, especially such an old one.

  There were obvious differences, other than that: her hair must have been black at one time but was now totally white, as fine as spun silk around her spare-boned face. Her skin was wrinkled and her body seemed almost fleshless—yet, as she came forward with a smile to shake hands with Fred Ramsgate, she moved with unmistakable grace and her face held charm. Fred visibly responded, his own face softening. He was very susceptible to charm in a woman of any age, from two to a hundred!

  'This is my daughter Caroline,' Fred introduced, and the two women shook hands, exchanging glances.

  'And so you work with your father? Do you find that interesting?' Lady Westbrook seemed incredulous, and Caro laughed shortly.

  'Very, I enjoy my work. I'm a qualified accountant, and did a course at a business school when I left school.'

  'Women's lives have changed so much since I was young!' Lady Westbrook said, and Caro wondered if she envied her, or disapproved. 'Do sit down, my dear, sit here, near me. My eyesight isn't as good as it was, and I like to be able to see my guests. Now, what would you both like to drink? A dry sherry or a sweet one?'

  The housekeeper poured them all sherry and vanished, and Lady Westbrook delicately sipped from her glass, then turned her commanding dark eyes upon Fred.

  'We do not want to ruin our meal by talking business, do we, so shall we get it out of the way beforehand?'

  Caro's face tightened; she and her father exchanged looks. 'As you wish,' Fred said flatly.

  Lady Westbrook studied him, her face expressionless. 'I am, of course, presuming that you are still interested?'

  'Still interested?' he repeated, and she nodded.

  'In buying Westbrooks.'

  Caro sat up, almost spilling her sherry. Fred's mouth dropped open. Whatever he had been expecting it had not been that, but he hurriedly pulled himself together.

  'Yes, yes, of course, very interested.'

  'Very well, then, tomorrow I will instruct my people to open negotiations with you,' Lady Westbrook said, and at that instant the door was flung open with a crash and Gil Martell appeared, his face dark with rage.

  Caro's nerves leapt violently, as if at the touch of fire. She had wondered if he was going to be there, and how he would look at her. Well, now she knew. He was in a nasty temper again—was that his usual mood or was it only when he saw her? He glared across the room at her and her father, and then threw a furious look at his grandmother.

  'What the hell is going on here?'

  'I do not recall inviting you to dinner, Gilham,' Lady

  Westbrook icily said. 'You are forgetting your manners.

  Don't you see that I have guests? Let me introduce you—

  this is Mr Ramsgate and his daughter Caroline '

  T know who they are,' Gil snarled. 'What I want to know is what are they doing here?'

  'I invited them to dine with me.' Lady Westbrook was rigid with offence, a spot of dark red in each withered cheek.

  'Why?' demanded Gil through his teeth, and his grandmother coldly answered him, drawing herself up in her chair.

  'I don't have to explain myself to you, Gilham, but if you really must know, I am discussing selling Westbrooks to Mr Ramsgate.'

  Gil Martell's teeth met and dark red surged up his face. 'Over my dead body!'

  CHAPTER THREE

  'Gladly,' Caro jumped in, unable to resist the temptation, and Lady Westbrook looked at her in astonishment, as if she had never heard anyone talk to her grandson like that, then she began to laugh. Gil wasn't either so surprised or so amused. He had met Caroline Ramsgate before.

  'You keep out of this!' he told her with dislike.

  'You deserved that, Gilham, and don't be rude to Miss Ramsgate!' Lady Westbrook said, stifling her laughter. 'And will you kindly leave? I didn't invite you to join us.'

  'Because you knew I would never agree to selling the store!'

  'Your agreement is not necessary, fortunately. I own the majority of the shares.'

  'You haven't even consulted the board!'

  'I don't need to consult anyone. The shares belong to me. If I choose to sell them, that's my business. And you can't say I didn't tell you my intentions, because I told you this morning that I had made up my mind to sell the shares. If you didn't believe I meant it, that is not my fault. I made myself quite clear, surely! I have never suffered from an inability to express myself with clarity.'

  Thickly, Gil Martell said, 'For heaven's sake, think! You know what it will mean! Whoever owns those shares controls the firm—you can't seriously want Westbrooks to go out of the family! It's crazy! Just because you're angry with me over some stupid little ' He broke off,

  remembering that Caro and her father were there, threw them a brief, angry look, his flush deepening, and muttered in an offhand voice, 'Look, I want to talk to my grandmother alone—would you mind leaving? This is a private matter, a family matter.'

  Fred Ramsgate mumbled, 'Of course...' and got up to go, and Caro rose as well, rather reluctantly, since she had been fascinated by the argument which had been raging. It was very revealing and explained a lot about Gil Martell. He obviously loved his grandmother; she had brought him up when his mother died, and they must be very close—but did he resent her domination, too?

  After all, she owned the shares which controlled the company, yet Gil had been managing the store for quite a time now, always subject to his grandmother's will, constantly reminded to whom the power finally belonged. He was not the sort of man to like that situation. He was far too arrogant and assertive.

  As Caro moved, her full-skirted tawny skirts rustled, brushing her slim legs. She loved the dress she had chosen to wear; it came from her favourite English designer. Made of taffeta, it was the colour of good sherry, the style a modern version of an Edwardian dress, with a high neck, a smooth-fitting bodice which emphasised her rounded breasts, a tight little waist and long, full skirts beneath which were hidden layers of crisp lacy petticoats. It made her feel very feminine.

  Gil Martell watched her, his gleaming eyes briefly flicking up and down her body with an assessment that made her skin hot. It wasn't that she felt he was at-n acted to her, only that he was the sort of man who always noticed women, was aware of their sexuality even if he disliked them.

  Caro understood that because she didn't like Gil Martell, either, yet she couldn't help being very conscious of his masculinity. All the same, she prickled under his gaze.

  'How dare you ask my guests to leave?' flared Lady Westbrook. 'Sit down again, Mr Ramsgate, take no notice of my grandson.'

  'We can't talk about this in front of strangers!' Gil bit out.

  'This is no time and place to discuss the matter at all,' his grandmother said. 'I am giving a dinner party, not conducting a business meeting. I merely asked Mr Ramsgate if he was still interested in buying the store, and he says that he is, so we can start having talks with him.'

  'We?' retorted Gil. 'I have no intention of having talks with him—or anyone who wants to buy my store.'

  'Your store?' the old lady repeated coldly, her eyes remote. 'You are forgetting—it is my store, Gilham. That is something you have overlooked all along. I own the store, and I can do what I like with it. It is time you realised that. I employ you to run it for me, you earn a very good salary for doing so, too, but you do not own it, nor will you be a party to the take-over discussions. If I decide to sell, Mr Ramsgate will be negotiating with my lawyers.'

  'If?' He seized on the word like a cat on the tail of a vanishing mouse. 'So you haven't actually made up your mind yet?'

  She shrugged. 'I am investigating the possibilities, let us say, of selling to Mr Ramsgate. My lawyers will handle it at first, since I dislike getting involved in business dealings, but I will make the final decision, and before
I do, I promise, I will consult you, although I can't promise to accept your advice. You will have your chance to say what you think, though. Now, I won't have you ruining my dinner party. These are my guests, and you are embarrassing them. Would you please leave?'

  For a second he didn't move, his long, athletic body so taut Caro felt she could see the tension in the muscles and nerves. A little tic pulsed in his throat, just below his ear, and his dark eyes glittered like polished jet.

  She waited, expecting another harsh outburst, but suddenly he swung on his heel and strode to the door, only to pull up and stand there for a moment, his back to them, his head lowered as if he was having a struggle with himself. At last he took an audible, long, deep breath, swung round and gave his grandmother a rueful and charming smile. Caro could see the little boy in it, the coaxing, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth little boy who had always been able to get round his grandmother with that smile.

  'I'm sorry, Grandmother,' he said softly. 'I lost my temper again. I didn't want to do that, I didn't mean to—I'd come round to apologise for the argument we had this morning, but it was such a shock to find you had already got a buyer lined up that I got angry all over again. I'm sorry.'

  Lady Westbrook gave him a cool stare, her mouth indenting. 'It's time you learnt to handle that temper of yours, Gilham. And don't you think you owe my guests an apology, too? They didn't come here tonight expecting a scene like that.'

  He walked back towards them, holding that charming expression on his face, although Caro could see the betraying glitter of his dark eyes all the time and she knew he was acting. He held out his hand, smiling with deceptive warmth. 'Mr Ramsgate, I beg your pardon, please forget my bad manners.'

  Fred looked at the hand, but did not take it. Instead, he said, 'Mr Martell, this morning my daughter was treated very badly in your store.'

  'That was a stupid mistake, for which I assure you I apologised,' Gil said smoothly, letting his hand drop.

  'That's all very well,' said Fred. 'Words are cheap enough, aren't they? You say it was a mistake—maybe, but even if it was a mistake, why did your store detective treat Caro so roughly? She says she was thrown across a room, dragged about, shaken...'

  Gil Martell grimaced. 'The man in question has been fired. He didn't act that way on my instructions, I assure you. Of course it was completely contrary to company policy. He should merely have asked her to accompany him to my office.' He smiled wryly. 'He was over-enthusiastic in his work, I'm afraid.'

  'You find that funny, do you?' Caro erupted.

  Gil looked at her, and frowned. 'Of course not!'

  'He was a thug, and you know it!'

  Gil's rage began to show through his charm, she was glad to see, like tin showing through the gilding on a cheap bracelet. He had to struggle to keep the smile on his face and his eyes distinctly menaced her.

  He saw he wasn't deceiving her, so he turned his charm back to her father, spoke to him confidentially, appealing to him as a fellow store owner. 'You know how it is these days. There has been a big increase in theft from the store, we have had to have cameras fitted on all floors, and a staff sitting in front of the monitors all the time. If you had seen the video film of the way your daughter acted in the store this morning, you would understand why my security staff's suspicions were aroused. She was clearly up to something, she was acting so oddly; they assumed she was another shoplifter.' He threw Caro a narrow-eyed glance. 'It didn't occur to them that she was just an industrial spy.'

  'Oh, don't be ridiculous!' Caro muttered.

  'It's the only word I can think of!' he snapped.

  Caro gritted her teeth, very flushed. She wasn't getting into another squabble with him, especially in front of his grandmother.

  Her father slid her a sideways, enquiring look, and she shook her head at him.

  Lady Westbrook was looking thunderstruck. 'What?' she demanded. 'What are you talking about, Gil? What happened at the store this morning? You didn't tell me anything about a problem.'

  'It was a little misunderstanding!' he dismissed.

  Fred gave Caro an uncertain look, signalling his doubts about how to proceed. If there was a possibility of buying Westbrooks they certainly didn't want to wreck their chances by suing the store, but Fred knew how angry Caro was about what had happened to her, and he was angry himself. His eyes asked her what she wanted him to do, and she grimaced back at him, recognising their dilemma and silently telling him to forget it. Getting hold of Westbrooks was more important than getting her revenge on Gil Martell.

  'It was all cleared up, Lady Westbrook,' she said. 'It was just a mistake, as your grandson says—and he did apologise.'

  Gil Martell gave her a grim little smile, mockery in those dark eyes. 'I'm glad you've decided to accept my apology, Miss Ramsgate. Very rational of you. I had a hunch you were going to make my life difficult. I'm glad I was wrong.'

  'Caro is always sensible,' her father boasted, and Gil Martell's brows curved in derision.

  'Sensible?' He swept her from head to foot with another of those lethal glances of his, smiling with dry amusement. 'Yes, I suppose that is an apt description of her. I'm sure she's very...' He paused, then said softly, 'Sensible!'

  Caro's grey eyes hated him; she knew he was making fun of her and she wished she weren't inhibited by the presence of his grandmother, and the vital importance of the deal her father hoped to make with Lady Westbrook, but she couldn't risk answering back, so she bit down on her inner lip and held her tongue.

  'No answer?' Gil laughed. 'Very wise.' He looked at his watch and shrugged. 'In that case, I must go now, I have an important engagement.'

  'Who with?' his grandmother demanded.

  His expression was bland. T don't imagine you know her, Grandmother.'

  Lady Westbrook's frown carved deep lines into her forehead. 'Not Miranda, then...?'

  Gil gave her an icy, angry glance, without answering the question, and turned away to give Caro a little bow. 'Goodnight, Miss Ramsgate.' He nodded to her father. 'Mr Ramsgate. I hope you enjoy your evening.'

  Caro thought for a second that he was going to leave without saying goodbye to his grandmother, but he bent and kissed Lady Westbrook's cheek. 'Goodnight, dear,' he said levelly, and walked away before she could answer him.

  The door closed behind him and Lady Westbrook sighed. 'He is my only grandchild,' she said quietly, without looking at either Caro or her father. Neither of them liked to reply. What could they say? They had the distinct feeling she had forgotten they were there.

  Who was he meeting tonight? wondered Caro as she ate a very good dinner, and drank the excellent wine served with it. If the gossip columns were to be believed, he dated any number of women—mostly very attractive ones. It was none of her business, and it was stupid to be curious about him. He would never be interested in her, so what difference did it make to her who he was meeting? But she wished she knew whether he was seeing the Countess again—how serious was that affair? Had her husband had good reason for picking a fight with Gil Martell? Caro pulled herself up, and told herself not to be such a fool, and to think about something else.

  It was on their way home that her father said to her, 'She's disinheriting him.'

  Caro stared, her grey eyes wide. 'Do you think so? She didn't say that. Just because she sells the store, it doesn't mean she's cutting him out of her will.'

  'It means she's taking away from him what he has spent years working for,' Fred Ramsgate drily said. 'You law how he took it.'

  'Badly.'

  'Precisely. He knows she is disinheriting him, taking the store away from him. Maybe she still intends to leave him her money, but by then it will be too late. He will have lost the store he already thinks of as his own. His Family built the place, after all. They've owned it for generations. No wonder Gil Martell is furious.'

  Caro gave her father a curious, sideways look. 'You seem to sympathise with him!'

  'I have a sneaking fellow-feeling,' Fred wryly
agreed. He's done a good job with the store. His father left it in a bad way and he's turned it round, only to have his grandmother fly into a temper with him and decide to sell the place over his head. Yes, I sympathise with the man.'

  'But you're still going to buy his store?' Caro asked rhetorically; she was certain her father would go ahead and buy Westbrooks. He had never let personal feelings cloud his judgement or influence him in the past—why should he do so now?

  'Of course,' said Fred flatly. 'If I don't buy it, someone else will—and I want Westbrooks badly. I learnt long ago, Caro, that when you make a deal like this, the chances are that somebody will get hurt in the process. In business, you can't afford to worry over every little detail of the consequences of a deal.'

  Caro grimaced. 'I suppose you're right. Dad, do you think she's doing it because of the gossip in the paper this morning? The fight in the nightclub?'

  'Who knows?' Fred shrugged. 'He seemed to think that that was why, didn't he?'

  'Yes, but... well, isn't that petty of her? She doesn't seem the petty type, but...'

  'There may be other reasons we don't know about, Caro. Who knows why she suddenly wants to sell? Maybe she needs the cash? Maybe she wants to settle money on someone other than her grandson? Perhaps she's in debt? It isn't our affair. That's exactly what I meant about not worrying about the consequences of a deal. Why Lady Westbrook is selling is nothing to do with us. Our only concern is getting the best possible deal for our shareholders. We'll look at their books, study the accounts, make sure the store is worth the price they're asking. The rest isn't our problem.'

  'We're going to need Gil Martel's co-operation,' Caro murmured wryly, 'and I don't see us getting it, do you?'

  'It will be your team that goes in there to look at the books,' her father pointed out. 'You'll just have to find a way of persuading Martell to play ball.'

  'Oh, thanks!' she groaned. 'Thanks a lot!'

  Ten days later she sat in her office staring at the phone, nerving herself to ring Gil Martell at Westbrooks. Before real discussions on the take-over could start, her father wanted his own accountants to go over the books and report on the situation in the store, but Lady Westbrook's lawyers had made it clear that Gil Martell was, as Caro had anticipated, being difficult. He wouldn't hand over the accounts and he had ignored all requests to allow Caro and her team into the accounts department at the store.