Then, with a snort of disgust, she’d said, ‘Some people—naming no names, but follow my eyes—just don’t appreciate how lucky they are!’
Cheered by the thought of the other girl, Cassandra unpacked and put away her clothes, leaving out fresh undies and a simple silk sheath in subtle shades of turquoise, green and gold.
Showered and dressed, she had just brushed her hair and was about to take it up into its usual coil, when there was a discreet tap at the door.
So Alan had managed to track her down.
A smile on her lips, she hurried to open it, and found the houseboy hovering.
‘Señor Dalton asks that you will join him for a pre-dinner drink.’
Scarcely ready, she hesitated. ‘At once?’
‘Sí, señorita.’
Knowing it would be unwise to keep him waiting, she braced herself and, leaving her hair curling loosely on her shoulders, closed her door and followed the slight figure.
Through the open windows she could faintly hear what sounded like one of the gardeners at work with a lawn mower. Apart from that, and the splash of an unseen fountain, it was almost eerily quiet, and there was still no sign of a soul.
When they reached the living area, the houseboy informed her, ‘Señor Dalton is on the terrace.’
‘Thank you, Manuel.’
He gave her a shy smile and departed, soft-footed.
The sliding glass opened on to a secluded terrace roofed with vines and screened from the pool and patio by a white, wrought-iron grille.
There was some comfortable-looking outdoor furniture scattered about, and a small but well-stocked refrigerated bar at one end.
Lang Dalton, who was lounging in a fan-backed wicker chair, rose to his feet at her approach and came to meet her.
She had been praying that his wife would be there, that other guests would be present, but he was alone.
Wearing a white evening shirt, a black bow-tie and a lightweight dinner-jacket, he looked both handsome and charismatic.
Taking her hand in a formal gesture, he said, ‘I must apologize if I’ve rushed you?’
‘No, not at all,’ she murmured, hoping he hadn’t noticed her stiffen at his touch.
Still holding her hand, he queried, ‘Are you happy with your room?’
‘Very happy, thank you… And Cleopatra herself would have approved of the bathing facilities.’
His eyes amused, he said, ‘I doubt it. We’re fresh out of asses’ milk.’
Made uncomfortable by his maleness, his undeniable and unexpected attraction, she withdrew her hand, and asked as lightly as possible, ‘Where is everyone?’
‘Everyone being…?’
‘Well…the rest of your guests.’
She saw his firm lips twitch.
The knowledge that her reference to other guests had appealed to his sense of humour made her add uneasily, ‘Alan said something about there being a small house party.’
‘In the event, I changed my mind,’ Lang Dalton told her smoothly. ‘There are no other guests.’
Feeling as though the ground had been cut from under her feet, she said blankly, ‘Oh.’
‘I hope you’re not too disappointed?’
The gleam in his eye made it clear that he knew how she felt and was enjoying her discomfort.
Recovering her equilibrium, she schooled her expression into an untroubled mask, and answered, ‘No, not at all. Who was it said “Fewer people can only be an advantage”?’
‘Bravo!’
She got the distinct impression that he was applauding her performance more than the sentiments.
His glance moved from her face to the tumble of silky hair, and, lifting his hand, he picked up a loose tendril and straightened it before letting it spring back. ‘Naturally curly?’
‘Yes,’ she said in a stifled voice.
Alan had made no mention of Lang Dalton being a philanderer, so perhaps his intention had merely been to tip her off balance once more.
If so, he’d succeeded.
Head tilted a little to one side, he studied her. ‘With your hair down, you look delightfully young and innocent.’
Though the words were flattering, she felt oddly convinced that no compliment had been intended. In fact his appraisal bordered on the critical, and, wondering if he found her appearance too casual for his liking, she began a shade defensively, ‘Well, I usually take it up, but I…’
‘But you didn’t have enough time…’ He ran the tips of his fingers lightly down one cheek, making her shiver. ‘And you’re not wearing any make-up. Dear me, in spite of your tactful denial, I must have rushed you.’
It was a moment or two before she managed to say jerkily, ‘In this kind of heat I prefer not to wear any make-up.’
‘Truth, or discretion?’ he queried, his smile openly mocking.
‘Truth.’ With well-marked brows and lashes, and a flawless skin, she didn’t really need make-up.
‘Sit down, Miss Vallance.’ He indicated a chair next to his own. ‘Or may I call you Cassandra?’
‘Please do,’ she agreed with distant civility, and sat down with the greatest reluctance. Oh, why wasn’t his wife here?
‘What would you like to drink, Cassandra?’
‘Something long and cold and not too alcoholic, please.’
Seeing him lift a blond brow, she added, ‘I still feel a little dehydrated from the flight.’
‘Then we’ll make it a very weak margarita.’ Crossing to the bar, he rimmed two glasses with salt and poured crushed ice into a cocktail shaker, before asking, ‘Do you like flying?’
Wondering where on earth Alan had got to, she answered abstractedly, ‘I haven’t done a great deal.’
‘How much have you done?’
Lang Dalton, it seemed, didn’t care for any kind of evasion.
‘Just one trip to Paris,’ she said evenly. ‘This is the first time I’ve flown long-haul.’
‘And you didn’t like it?’
‘Yes, I liked it.’
‘But you didn’t want to come to California?’
Startled, she asked, ‘What makes you think that?’
‘It’s quite obvious.’
‘Really, you’re mistaken,’ she protested.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ he said shortly, and wondered, Had she any idea who he was? ‘Why didn’t you want to come?’
She racked her brains to find some diplomatic excuse that would sound feasible, but her mind stayed a blank, and finally she admitted, ‘I—I don’t know. There was no real reason.’
Aware that what he saw as her refusal to answer had vexed him, she added helplessly, ‘I just had a strange feeling that things weren’t going to go smoothly, and…’ The words tailed off.
Careful not to look in his direction, she heard the rhythmic shush of the cocktail shaker, then the sound of its contents being poured.
A moment or two later he put a tall, chilled glass into her hand and, taking his seat beside her, prompted, ‘And?’
‘And they didn’t… You and I got off on the wrong foot.’
‘Correction,’ he said softly. ‘You got off on the wrong foot.’
She forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I’m sorry about that.’
He made no comment, and after a moment she looked away uncomfortably.
While they sipped their drinks, she was aware that his gaze never left her face. Flustered by that relentless scrutiny, she tried to think of something to say, while the silence stretched unbearably.
At length, in desperation, she blurted out, ‘I can’t imagine where Alan’s got to.’
‘If I’d wanted Brent here, I would have sent for him,’ Lang informed her crisply. ‘It was you I wanted to talk to. You have a lovely voice, so use it. Tell me about yourself.’
Strangely unwilling, as though telling this man about herself would somehow make her vulnerable, she began, ‘Well, I came to work for Dalton International when—’
‘I’m n
ot asking about the business side,’ he broke in with a touch of impatience. ‘It’s you I want to know about. How old are you?’
Reminding herself that he was her boss as well as Alan’s, she replied stiffly, ‘Twenty-two.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘In Bayswater.’
‘Alone?’
‘I share a flat.’
‘With Brent?’
‘With a girlfriend.’
‘Where were you born?’
‘Oxford.’
‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’
‘No, I was an only child.’ She was answering each question with studied politeness, but making very little effort to elaborate.
His annoyance barely masked, he said peremptorily, ‘I would prefer you to tell me in your own words rather than make it into an interrogation.’
Allowing a few seconds for that to sink in, he added, ‘Suppose you start with your home background—parents, schooling, that kind of thing.’
‘My father was a historian, an academic who lived in Chaucer’s time rather than in the real world. My mother was a career woman, and ran a successful secretarial agency. They were both in their late thirties and set in their ways before I was born.’
Making no comment, his eyes on her face, he waited.
Flatly, dispassionately, she went on, ‘Because neither of them wanted, or had any time for, a child, they hired a nanny until I was old enough to be sent away to boarding-school.’
An expression she couldn’t decipher crossed his face, before he asked, ‘Were you happy there?’
‘Most of the time.’ Except when holidays came round. Then, because it wasn’t ‘convenient’ to have her home, her parents had farmed her out to various distant relatives, until she’d been old enough to make her own plans.
‘And when you left school?’
‘I went to college.’
In response to his little frown of irritation, she continued, ‘When I graduated last year, I was offered a job at Dalton International, and I’ve been Alan’s secretary and personal assistant for the past five months.’
Her left hand was lightly gripping the arm of her chair, and, noticing Lang Dalton’s glance linger on her engagement ring, she found herself wondering whether he questioned Alan’s motives for giving her the job.
Lifting her chin, she asked, ‘But perhaps you think I wasn’t experienced enough to have been offered such a post?’
‘I don’t think anything of the kind. When Brent made you his PA, he was acting on my instructions.’
Cassandra’s green eyes widened. She’d had absolutely no idea. Alan hadn’t breathed a word.
‘Surprised?’ Lang Dalton didn’t miss a thing.
‘Yes,’ she admitted. Then, with an odd little shiver, she began, ‘Why did you—?’
He cut her short. ‘I knew you had all the necessary qualifications.’
So had several other people who had been with Dalton’s a great deal longer.
Cassandra had presumed at the time that it was Alan’s decision. He’d been taking her out for several weeks, and, afraid there might be strings attached, she had thought long and hard before accepting.
Watching her transparent face, Lang asked, ‘What’s Brent like to work for?’
Alan had turned out to be a very good boss, and working for him had proved a pleasure.
She said as much, and watched Lang Dalton smile sardonically.
‘You think I’m prejudiced?’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘No,’ she denied hardly. ‘I’m sure anyone else would tell you the same.’
‘Your loyalty does you credit.’
Refusing to protest further, she bit her lip and said nothing.
‘When did you two get engaged?’
‘About three months ago.’
‘And you’re planning to get married…when?’
‘In just over a week.’
‘I had the impression it was next spring.’
‘We brought the date forward.’
‘Any particular reason?’ he asked idly.
Flushing furiously, she said in a half-strangled voice, ‘I’m not pregnant, Mr Dalton, if that’s what you mean,’ and watched the build-up of tension in his big frame relax.
‘Forgive me,’ he said smoothly, ‘but there’s always a possibility, and it might have affected my future plans for the pair of you.’
Taken aback, she asked, ‘What kind of future plans?’
Ignoring the question, he asked abruptly, ‘Do you love Brent?’
Her private feelings had nothing whatsoever to do with this arrogant man, and for a moment she was sorely tempted to jump up and walk away. But, knowing any open discourtesy on her part might rebound on Alan, she hesitated.
The dark blue eyes pinned her. ‘You obviously feel that I’ve no right to be asking such personal questions.’
Meeting his gaze steadily, she said, ‘I really can’t see that they’re relevant.’
‘Brent is poised to go to the top in my organization, and a top executive’s working life is invariably affected by his or her private life.
‘I’ve found from past experience that it’s almost impossible to separate the two. So before I promote anyone I feel justified in asking enough questions to size up the situation…’
So that was why they had both been invited. What he’d meant by future plans.
‘It’s up to you, of course. You don’t have to answer.’
But if she didn’t it would no doubt adversely affect Alan’s prospects.
Biting back her resentment, she said, ‘I love him very much. I wouldn’t be marrying him if I didn’t.’
His blue eyes cynical, Lang observed, ‘In my experience, women marry men for a variety of reasons, and love isn’t necessarily one of them.’
‘You seem to have been…’ She stopped speaking abruptly.
‘Do go on,’ he said silkily. ‘What do I seem to have been?’
‘Unfortunate in your experience of women.’
The instant the fatal sentence was spoken, she could have bitten her tongue. He looked absolutely livid.
As though the words echoed inside her head, she could hear Alan saying, ‘All you have to do is take care not to get on the wrong side of him.’
Her heart like lead, she realized that though they had only been here a matter of hours she’d managed to do just that.
After a moment or two, his anger under control, his hard face devoid of expression, he asked brusquely, ‘So what exactly have you heard?’
‘I—I don’t know what you mean.’ She was genuinely at a loss.
His eyes holding hers, he said slowly, ‘I could almost believe that.’
‘You can believe it, Mr Dalton. It’s the truth.’
‘Do you mean there isn’t any gossip going the rounds? Or you don’t listen to it?’
‘If you mean gossip about you, so far as I know there isn’t any.’
‘That’s surprising. Though at this end every effort was made to curb it, it’s almost impossible to stamp it out altogether. You’d heard the old rumour that my PA was afraid of me…’
Not knowing what to say, Cassandra stayed silent.
‘And your remark just now suggested you’d heard…other things.’
Shaking her head, she chose her words with care. ‘I said what I did because I thought you sounded…somewhat disillusioned… Obviously I got the wrong impression.’
Then, in a rush, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I know you’re angry with me, but please don’t hold it against Alan.’
Lang’s dark blue gaze narrowed on her face. Mockingly, he said, ‘I could almost believe you do love him.’
Watching her bite her lip, he smiled thinly.
Afraid to speak in case she put her foot in it again, she twisted her hands together in her lap and prayed that someone would come and break up this most uncomfortable tête-à-tête.
CHAPTER TWO
HER prayer was answered.
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‘So there you are, Cass…’
The familiar voice sent a flood of relief surging through her, and she looked up eagerly to see Alan crossing the terrace.
Freshly showered and shaved, his evening jacket immaculate, his dark hair expertly styled, he looked every inch the rising young executive.
Sounding more than a little put out, he added, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Come and join us,’ Lang Dalton invited blandly, his air now that of a civil host. ‘What will you have to drink?’
‘Sweet vermouth, please, with ice and lemon.’
Rising to his feet, Lang queried, ‘Would you like a refill, Cassandra?’
Catching Alan’s flicker of surprise at the use of her Christian name, she answered awkwardly, ‘No, thank you. As a rule I don’t drink at all.’
When the tall figure had crossed to the bar, Alan came and sat down opposite her. His good-looking face aggrieved, he complained, ‘I hung about for what seemed an age… In the end I was forced to ask the houseboy where your room was.’
Seeing his dignity had been wounded, she began, ‘I’m sorry, I—’
But he was going on, ‘When I found it was empty, and there was no sign of you, I began to wonder where the devil you’d got to.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, ‘but I—’
She broke off as, having passed Alan his vermouth, Lang Dalton came and sat down again beside her.
‘There’s no need for Cassandra to apologize,’ he said coolly, obviously having overheard the low-toned conversation. ‘The fault was mine. I asked her to have a private drink with me…’
Alan looked startled.
‘I wanted to sound her out about something before I spoke to you. In the event I didn’t get round to it.’
His brown eyes holding a hint of anxiety, Alan asked, ‘What did you want to speak to me about?’
‘As we’ll be dining shortly, I’d prefer to leave any business discussions until later,’ Lang Dalton told him. He continued decidedly, ‘I make it a rule never to talk shop at the table—whether or not there are other guests present.’
The Marriage Takeover Page 2