'Indeed, sir? Most regrettable.' Mortimer shook his head gravely.
Carrying her through to the beautiful oak-panelled dining room, lit only by candles, Blaze set her on her feet with care, supporting her with one arm while he pulled out her chair.
'Thank you,' she said stiffly.
'My pleasure.' He smiled at her, a smile that despite its mockery held an irresistible charm.
Distracted, she sat down incautiously and winced. He raised a questioning brow.
'A bruised hip,' she admitted.
'I see your arm's badly bruised too. A result of the bag-snatching incident?'
'Yes.'
When she was settled comfortably, he took his own place at the head of the long table. It was set with superb porcelain, fine crystal, fresh flowers and candelabra, and could easily have seated twenty.
The meal that followed was excellent, but, in spite of having had nothing but a sandwich at lunchtime, with so much on her mind Fran found herself unable to enjoy it.
On edge and anxious, aware that Blaze watched her like a hawk, she sipped the light white wine, which was pleasantly cool and refreshing, and made a pretence of eating.
Her companion wasn't fooled for an instant. 'Why don't you stop worrying about Varley?'
Grey-green eyes met charcoal-grey with a mixture of distress and defiance. 'How can I help but worry when I don't know what's happened to him...?'
'He doesn't seem to be worried about you. In spite of the fact that you were doing his dirty work...'
Fran set down her fork with a sharp click.
Blaze shrugged. 'Okay, I'll rephrase that. Though you were taking all the responsibility, he hasn't even rung to make sure you got here safely.'
"That's one of the reasons that makes me think he may have had an accident. He could be badly injured, lying unconscious in some hospital.'
Candlelight reflected in his dark eyes, Blaze said dismissively, 'He could be, but I think it unlikely. In fact I'd wager that you're the one who's come off worst, being attacked like that.'
Since seeing her bruised arm he seemed to be taking the whole thing a great deal more seriously.
Truthfully, she said, 'My main concern was always the necklace.'
The butler approached and cleared his throat discreetly.
Blaze glanced up. 'Yes, what is it, Mortimer?'
*A telephone call, sir. I wouldn't have interrupted your meal, but the gentleman, who failed to give his name, insisted that it was urgent.'
Judging by the butler's offended air, Blaze felt sure that 'failed' was a euphemism for 'refused'.
Tossing down his napkin, he rose to his feet and, turning to Fran, said, 'If you'll excuse me?'
Her heart beating faster with a combination of alarm, hope and excitement, she watched him follow the butler from the room.
CHAPTER FOUR
AFTER perhaps a couple of minutes Blaze returned and resumed his seat, his hard-boned, attractive face unreadable.
In answer to Fran's anxious glance, he shook his head. 'It was neither Melinda nor Varley, I'm afraid. Merely business.'
'Oh.' Disappointment clouded the clear greeny-grey eyes.
He refilled her glass, and, taking up the conversation where they'd left off, remarked, 'Even though the necklace was safe, the fact that the attack happened at all must have left you pretty badly shaken.'
'My confidence was,' she admitted. 'That's why I didn't want to report the incident and risk having to hang about. Though the man who helped me up—' All at once she remembered the 'colonel', and stopped abruptly. 'Or should I say Mr Bellamy?'
Blaze grimaced ruefully. 'So you recognised him? When I discovered you'd seen the taxi, I wondered if you might have done.'
"Then his coming to Balantyne Hall wasn't a coincidence?'
'No, it wasn't a coincidence.'
Light beginning to dawn, she said slowly. 'He was on the same Manchester to London plane as myself.'
'He belongs to Ritters. I hired him to keep an eye on you,' Blaze admitted coolly.
A private detective! Her blood ran cold. The thought of being followed and spied on was an unpleasant one, to say the least.
'He was most concerned about the attack,' Blaze went on. 'He felt that, knowing what he did know, he should have been able to prevent it... But, though he's an experienced man, an ex-police officer, he admits the suddenness took him by surprise.'
Fran's well-marked brows drew together in a frown. 'You said knowing what he did know... What did he know?'
'That he wasn't the only person tailing you.'
As she gazed at her companion blankly, Blaze went on, 'He described the other man as thin and nondescript-looking, with sandy hair and a sharp, ferrety face...'
Like someone in a dream, she added, 'His suit was creased and he carried a mac over his arm. He was on the same plane too...'
'So you spotted him?'
'While I was waiting by the reception desk I looked up and he seemed to be watching me... But then he walked away...'
Feeling as though she was caught up in some crazy Alice in Wonderland situation, Fran asked almost pleadingly, 'Are you sure he was following me? It doesn't make sense...'
'It does if he knew you were carrying the necklace.'
'No one could possibly have known.'
'Someone did.'
'You mean the theft of my handbag? But surely that was just petty crime? The sort of thing that happens every day?'
'According to Bellamy, most people who commit petty crime are opportunists. On the face of it, this man tailed you all the way from Manchester to do it.'
'What makes you think it was him?'
'It seems logical... Could it have been him?'
Doubtfully, she said, 'It could have, I suppose. Though I certainly couldn't swear to it. Everything happened so quickly that the whole thing was just a blur... Didn't Mr Bellamy get a glimpse of whoever it was?'
'Unfortunately not. He was looking to see if there was another taxi coming—'
To enable him to follow me?'
'Ironic, isn't it?'
She harked back. 'But if it was this man, why bother to tail me to London? Why not do the job at Manchester airport?'
Too close to home, perhaps... Or simply to throw us off the scent by making it look like petty crime.'
Fran shook her head. 'It sounds so far-fetched...'
'You know the old saying about truth being stranger than fiction...'
There was a pause in the conversation while the main course dishes were cleared.
When Fran refused the sweet, Blaze too waved it away, and suggested, 'Shall we have coffee on the terrace?'
Rising to his feet, he stood by her chair, looking down at her.
Recalling the way he'd carried her here, the effect it had had on her, she went hot all over. 'I don't need any help. I can walk perfectly well.'
'Don't be a fool,' Blaze said shortly. 'You'll only chance making it worse.'
'I don't want you to carry me,' she insisted, a note of near-panic creeping into her voice.
Mortimer, who had appeared as if by magic, cleared his throat and addressed his master. 'If I might be permitted to suggest a solution, sir?'
'You'll carry Miss Holt?' Blaze asked flippantly.
That was not what I had in mind, sir.' The butler's response to his master's levity held the merest suggestion of dignified reproof.
"Then what did you have in mind, Mortimer?'
'It occurred to me, sir, that the late master's chair might be pressed into service. Towards the end of his life Sir Edward found it more suitable than an ordinary dining chair.'
The butler signalled to one of the footmen, who pushed forward a compact, leather-covered chair with neat arms: a chair that moved easily on castors.
Turning to Fran, Blaze raised an eyebrow. 'Well? Which is it to be?1
'The chair will do fine, thank you.'
"Then allow me, miss.' The butler offered her a black-clad arm and, when she ha
d changed seats, made himself personally responsible for pushing the chair through to the living room and out on to the terrace.
'Thank you, Mortimer.' She was sincerely grateful. "That was an absolute brainwave.'
Looking gratified, the butler bowed, and withdrew.
'Now, why do I get the feeling that Mortimer, who is a self-confessed misogynist, is on your side?' Blaze asked ironically.
Remembering his earlier remark about her being too sassy, she bit back the rejoinder on the tip of her tongue and said sweetly, 'I really can't imagine.'
He darted her a sharp glance, but let it go.
Beyond the lighted terrace it was quite dark now; the sky was like black velvet and the stars looked even brighter.
An exotic scent compounded of flowers and lemon and spice hung on the still air, and the night had turned so hot and sultry they could have been in the tropics rather than the English countryside.
There was a faint rattle and the maid appeared with a tray of coffee. Putting it carefully on the table, she asked, 'Shall I pour, sir?'
'No, thank you, Hannah, we'll help ourselves.'
When the girl had gone, Blaze offered Fran a hand. 'If you move to one of the loungers you'll be able to put your foot up.'
Ignoring the proffered hand, she said shortly, 'Thank you, but I'm quite comfortable where I am.'
He gave a slight shrug, before asking, 'Would you like a brandy or a liqueur?'
'No, thank you, just coffee.'
He poured, and passed her a cup. 'A little cream, no sugar.'
"Thank you.' She felt a secret frisson of pleasure that after three years he still remembered how she liked her coffee.
Pouring his own, which he always took black and sugarless, he remarked, 'You don't look particularly comfortable. Sure you don't want to move?'
'I hardly think it's worth it,' she refused coolly. 'I'd like to go to bed as soon as I've finished my coffee.'
Lifting a dark brow, Blaze queried, 'Do I detect a touch of frost in the air?'
Her indignation surfaced in a rush. 'You surely don't expect me to like the fact that you had me spied on as though I were some criminal?'
'No,' he admitted. 'But I did what I thought was necessary.'
'How long has he been watching me?'
'Since I got word of Varley's financial problems and began to smell a rat.'
'So that's how you knew I wasn't living at Kirk's apartment...' A further and equally disagreeable thought struck her. 'I suppose you were having him followed too?
'No, wait... That doesn't make sense... If you had been you would have known where he was and what he was doing.'
Blaze smiled mirthlessly. 'I should have known. But whether by chance or design—you see, I'm prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt—your fiancé managed to lose the man who was shadowing him.'
'Before or after he reached Amsterdam?'
'He didn't go to Amsterdam.'
'Of course he went to Amsterdam. I saw him off at the airport myself.'
'You might have gone as far as Departures with him and kissed him goodbye...in fact I know you did. But he didn't get on the plane for Amsterdam. As soon as you had disappeared into the crowd he doubled back. He was heading out of the airport when he gave my detective the slip.'
'I thought you were giving him the benefit of the doubt?' she observed acidly.
'Very well. He was heading out of the airport when my detective lost him. Have you any idea why he changed his mind?'
'I don't believe he did,' she denied stoutly. "The agency you hired doesn't seem to be particularly competent. Are you sure your so-called detective was following the right man?'
'He was following the man you'd just said goodbye to. A man he described as being of medium height, slim build, blond and good-looking, in his early thirties. It tallies perfectly with your own description."
'Yes, but...' She shook her head as if to clear it "There must be some mistake. The Amsterdam trip was very important Kirk would never have changed his mind at the last minute... And if he had why didn't he come back to the shop?'
'That's fairly obvious. Because he didn't want you to know he hadn't gone. He wanted you to stick to the plan. Which you did...'
Suddenly bold, she carried the war into the enemy camp. 'Well, as I did, and as you have your necklace safely back, whatever Kirk did or didn't do—and I don't for an instant believe your detective's absurd story—it's really none of your business. You've attacked both his reputation and his integrity, you've accused him of gambling and of planning to steal your precious rubies, and now I think you...' Running out of breath, she stopped short.
'Owe him an apology?' Blaze suggested.
'Yes.'
'Then when he gets here I'll give him one. What about you?'
'Me?'
'Wouldn't you say I also owe you an apology?'
She smiled derisively. 'For thinking I would be willing to bolt to South America and join a jewel thief on the run? It was too funny to take seriously.'
A glint in his eye, he said, 'I'm glad you were amused. But I still feel I should make amends. After all, we were once...' the pause was infinitesimal '...good friends.'
Something about the way he was looking at her mouth raised all the tiny hairs on the back of her neck.
Setting her coffee cup down on the table with a little crash, she stammered, 'R-really, there's no need to apologise...'
Then, in an effort to deflect an intention that was almost palpable, she rose to her feet, adding hastily, 'If you don't mind I'd like to go to bed now. It's been a thing day... If Kirk comes after I've gone—'
'Mortimer will no doubt let him in.'
"Then I'll say goodnight.'
'I'll see you up. I don't intend to be too late myself.' A strange note in his voice, he added, 'Tomorrow looks like being a busy day.'
To Fran's consternation he stooped, and, one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back, lifted her as though she were a feather.
Swallowing, she tried hard to appear unconcerned, but every nerve in her body had tightened in fright and her pulses were racing madly.
He looked at her, his dark eyes gleaming between long, thick lashes, and suggested, 'It would make it a lot easier if you were to put your arms around my neck.'
As she held back, he said encouragingly, 'It's not difficult. You've done it before.'
Damn him! she thought angrily. He was deliberately tormenting her. But circumstances had given him the upper hand, and there was no point in engaging in a verbal battle. Particularly as she had little chance of winning. She was well aware, from past experience, that both his wit and his tongue were quicker than her own.
Biting her lip, she slid her arms around his neck and clasped her hands together. Her fingers brushed the short hair that curled slightly into his nape and her heart lurched.
"That's better,' he said softly. 'I always did like a bit of co-operation.'
From the comer of her eye she saw that his handsome face wore a look of seraphic innocence obviously intended to infuriate her.
Well, she wouldn't rise to the bait.
Determinedly changing the subject, she remarked, 'You mentioned a busy day tomorrow. Have you many guests arriving? I mean for the weekend.'
Crossing the living room, he headed for the stairs before answering, 'About forty people in all. One or two old cronies of my father's, the others either neighbours or business acquaintances and their wives, none of whom are staying the night.'
She was surprised. 'Oh? I thought it was to be a weekend house party for close friends and family?'
'The only family I have left live in the States. So do most of my friends. The same goes for Melinda...'
Though he was talking while he carried her up the stairs he showed no sign of being out of breath, and she marvelled at his fitness.
'I would have preferred to have kept everything under wraps until we were married, but Melinda wanted a formal engagement party. She couldn't
wait to meet some of my aristocratic neighbours and show off both the necklace and its designer...'
Fran had wondered why, knowing quite well who she was, Blaze had invited her. The answer seemed to be that Melinda had wanted her.
'Afterwards, when both the wedding and the honeymoon were safely over, the plan was to hold a big party at the New York Plaza.'
It occurred to Fran that he was using the past tense, as if Melinda's absence had somehow altered things, made him change his mind.
But he wouldn't change his mind just because his fiancée, whom he'd admitted was usually late, hadn't yet arrived...
Fran's train of thought came to an abrupt halt as she realised that they had almost reached her room.
Eager to escape, she was already rehearsing a cool, Thank you, and goodnight, when he stopped at her door.
But, instead of setting her on her feet, as she'd expected, he advised, 'Hang on,' and, bending a little to turn the knob, walked straight in, shouldering the door shut behind him.
She was suddenly scared stiff, not so much of him, but of her own reactions to him.
Her voice, normally low and attractively husky, was now high and a trifle shrill as she demanded, 'What are you doing?'
He raised a dark brow at her tone. 'What does it look as if I'm doing?'
Masking her fear with anger, she told him curtly, 'I'd rather you didn't come into my room.'
'It occurred to me that you might need some help.'
'I don't need any help. I can manage perfectly well...'
He was still standing holding her, as though he was enjoying the feel of her slender body resting against his.
'So if you'll put me down...' she added icily.
'Certainly.' Crossing the polished floorboards, he laid her on the bed and sat on the edge, trapping her there.
Whoever had drawn the curtains and turned back the covers had left the bedside lamp on, and while she lay in a circle of light his face was in shadow.
'Happier now?' he queried silkily. ' She was anything but.
The fact that she was lying down while he was sitting upright put her at a grave disadvantage.
Gritting her teeth, she made an attempt to push herself into a sitting position.
He prevented her by the simple expedient of pulling her elbows from beneath her.
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