by Anne Mather
‘If I thought that, I wouldn’t be here,’ Reed responded, with brutal arrogance. ‘Now, I’ve parked the car in the carpark at the back of here. I suggest we go and find it and …’
‘No!’ With quivering determination, Antonia pulled herself away from him. ‘No, I won’t go with you!’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know where you’ve got the idea from that I might like to have lunch with you, but it’s mistaken, believe me! Now, please—go away and stop bothering me!’
‘Antonia …’
‘Mrs Sheldon!’
‘All right, Mrs Sheldon then.’ His lips tightened with the effort to be civil. ‘Can you deny that you’re in no fit state to be left on your own …’
‘Because of you!’ she interrupted him unsteadily, and he politely inclined his head.
‘If you say so,’ he conceded, neither denying nor admitting the charge. ‘Even so, I’d be one hell of a bastard if I walked off and left you now. So I suggest we find somewhere you can sit down, and I’ll buy you a drink or a sandwich or whatever it takes to put some colour back into your face.’
Antonia took a deep breath. ‘I’m not leaving here.’
‘I’m not suggesting you should.’ He glanced round. ‘How about that pub over there? They’re bound to serve bar snacks at lunchtime. Let me buy you a drink and a ham roll or something.’ He paused. ‘Just to prove I’m not the villain you seem to think me.’
Antonia sighed. ‘And if someone sees us?’
Reed’s lips twisted. ‘Are you ashamed of being seen with me?’
‘You know what I mean!’
‘Someone I know?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what?’ He shrugged. ‘I’m only buying you a drink. Where’s the harm in that?’
Where indeed? Antonia pondered uneasily, reluctantly following Reed into the bar of the pub. Except that she should have been more positive, instead of giving in to what could only be regarded as a reckless impulse.
The Black Lion turned out to be a favourite haunt of students from the institute, Antonia discovered, and she saw several familiar faces as she made her way to the comparative anonymity of a corner booth. She hoped no one recognised her. As yet, her features were not well known outside Mr Fenwick’s domain. But she had not taken into account the fact that as a newcomer she had inspired a great deal of interest among the male fraternity. Tall and slim, with the full breasts she so abhorred, she had attracted a considerable amount of admiration, and more than one of the trainees had expressed the aspiration to be the focus of her long, faintly Oriental eyes.
The booths were all occupied, but the one in the corner had two vacant seats on a banquette, facing a young couple who were evidently engrossed in one another. Antonia chose this, sliding on to the cool vinyl pad with some relief. In spite of her reluctance to spend any longer with Reed than was absolutely necessary, she was grateful for the chance to sit down and recover her self-possession. And surely now she had an opportunity to make him see he was wasting his time by pursuing her?
Reed had got their drinks, and she lifted her hand to let him see where she was. He came across carrying the two drinks in one hand and two ham and salad rolls in a paper napkin in the other. Setting the drinks on the table, he slid on to the banquette beside her, and although she had moved to the farthest extremities of the booth, his thigh brushed hers as he took his seat.
As usual, he looked perfectly at home in what must be, for him, unfamiliar surroundings. Swallowing a mouthful of the glass of lager he had bought for himself, he surveyed the busy environs of the bar with casual interest, apparently unaware that the girl opposite had transferred her attention from her boyfriend to him.
‘What is this?’ Antonia asked bleakly, to distract the girl’s assessing gaze, and Reed turned his head to look at her. This close, the disruptive influence of his darkly fringed eyes was devastating, and forcing herself to concentrate on the glass in front of her, Antonia made her meaning plain.
‘It’s brandy,’ Reed told her, putting down his glass and pushing hers towards her. ‘Drink it. It will do you good. You look as though you need it.’
Aware that their conversation was being monitored by the young woman opposite, albeit that she had been obliged to return her attention to her boyfriend, Antonia felt her indignation rising. ‘What do you mean by that?’ she enquired, barely audibly, but Reed’s expression revealed he had heard.
‘Pale,’ he said, lifting his hand and running his knuckles down her cheek, and although she flinched away from him, she could still feel his touch long after it had departed.
Deciding she needed the raw spirit after all, Antonia took a sip of the brandy, catching her breath as it forged its way down into her stomach. But he was right. It was warming. And she took another sip before examining her sandwich.
‘They only had ham and salad,’ Reed remarked, biting into the crisp roll he had bought for himself. ‘I hope you like it.’
Antonia made no response, but she did nibble at her own sandwich, meeting the eyes of the young woman opposite with rather more confidence than before. After all, she could hardly blame her for looking at Reed, she thought. He was good to look at. And nor could she blame her if she was wondering what he was doing with someone like her.
‘Is it okay?’
Reed emptied his mouth to take another drink of his beer, and Antonia nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered politely, not responding to his evident desire for her to look at him, and he turned back to his roll with rigid application.
Antonia could not eat all her sandwich. It wasn’t easy eating any of it with the twin disadvantages of Reed, and the girl opposite, observing her progress. But the brandy was soothing, and by the time her glass was empty, she was feeling more herself.
Reed, too, left half his roll, his appetite only lasting so long as Antonia was making an effort. However, without asking her permission he took their empty glasses back to the bar and returned with them filled, his eyes challenging her to refuse him when his presence on the banquette prevented her escape.
To Antonia’s relief, the young couple opposite departed a few moments later, and no one else came to take their place. The crowd in the bar was thinning as people made their way back to work, and glancing at her watch, Antonia was horrified to discover it was nearly half-past one.
‘I should be leaving,’ she said, taking a polite, if hasty sip of her drink. ‘Really, I’m due back in the office at a quarter to two.’
‘You’ll be there,’ stated Reed flatly, his gaze flickering over her anxious face. ‘There’s no point in asking you to take the afternoon off, is there? You’re honest and conscientious, as well as everything else.’
Antonia’s breathing felt constricted. ‘Mr Gallagher …’
‘Reed.’
‘Mr Gallagher, I think this conversation has gone far enough.’
‘Do you?’ His lips curled in sudden mockery. ‘Well, yes, I guess you could be right. But that doesn’t solve my problem.’
‘I don’t think you have a problem, Mr Gallagher,’ Antonia retorted huskily. ‘Please: I’d like to get out now.’
‘And if I don’t let you?’ he countered, his obstruction causing her to meet his gaze.
‘I could scream,’ she retorted.
‘Would you?’ His eyes taunted her. ‘Wouldn’t that just be doing what you’re trying to avoid? Drawing attention to us?’
‘Please …’
‘Say: please, Reed.’
Antonia closed her eyes against his unquestionable attraction and repeated in a small, tense voice: ‘Please, Reed!’
‘Okay.’
With a jack-knifing movement, he extricated himself from the banquette, but when he would have given her his hand to assist her, Antonia ignored it. Self-consciously aware that the heat of her body had practically glued her to the seat, she managed to lever herself out of the booth, marching stiffly ahead of him out of the pub.
Outside, she was almost amazed to discover
the sun was still shining. The subdued lighting in the bar had given the impression that it was quite dull outside, and it was heartening to discover the day was still bright.
‘I’ll walk you back to the institute,’ Reed said, when she would have nodded farewell and left him.
Antonia straightened her spine. ‘That’s not necessary.’
‘I know it’s not,’ he responded tersely, falling into step beside her in spite of her denial. ‘Tell me: what do you do at this institute? We’ve had lunch together, and I still know next to nothing about you.’
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested,’ replied Antonia annoyingly, and she sensed his controlled reaction.
‘If I weren’t, I shouldn’t be asking,’ he retorted, not quite succeeding in disguising his impatience. ‘It’s not a state secret, is it? You’re not quietly a front for MI6?’
‘Hardly.’ Antonia felt an insurgent desire to laugh at the idea that Mr Fenwick might be involved in counter-espionage. Picturing the rotund director of the institute in the role of a latter-day James Bond didn’t quite fit his image, and her lips twitched irresistibly at this portrayal of her employer. ‘As a matter of fact, I work for the institute’s director,’ she volunteered now, deciding there was no harm in being honest with him ‘It’s interesting work. I like it.’
Reed inclined his head. ‘But you’re not from London, are you?’
‘No.’ Antonia took a deep breath. ‘Didn’t your fiancée tell you?’ she asked, introducing Celia’s name deliberately. ‘I come from the north of England; Newcastle, to be exact. I’ve only lived in London for the past two months.’
‘And do you like it?’ he asked, not taking her up on his fiancée’s involvement, and she shrugged.
‘I’ve told you. I like my work. For the rest—well, I miss my family.’
They had reached the institute now, and halting, she turned to say goodbye. ‘Thank you for my lunch,’ she said, as if she was reciting the words, and Reed thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, as if to prevent himself from actual physical violence.
‘I want to see you again,’ he said, stepping closer to her, and she could feel, as well as smell, the heat of his body. ‘Now, don’t give me any nonsense about its not being a good idea, or what will Celia say,’ he added huskily. ‘Just say yes, for once in your life, without weighing the pros and cons.’
‘I can’t …’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’
‘I can’t,’ she repeated unsteadily, stepping back from him. With the warmth and the musky male scent of him enveloping her, it was incredibly difficult to refuse him, but the sanity of reason eventually prevailed. ‘Look,’ she appended stiffly, ‘I realise you’re probably used to young women falling at your feet, but I can’t help it. I have no intention of providing a novelty for you or anyone else, and if you want a gutter experience, I suggest you look elsewhere!’
CHAPTER FOUR
THE offices of the Gallagher Trust and Investment Corporation were in a quiet square, just off the Strand. When Reed’s grandfather took over the company in 1920, its assets only ran to two floors of a rather seedy tenement building near King’s Cross, but the old man had changed all that. With the first Great War behind them, people were eager to invest in anything which would bring them a swift profit, and Reed’s grandfather had turned this to his advantage. While other speculators concentrated on the stock market, Declan Gallagher bought property, putting his client’s money into solid bricks and mortar, that were still standing long after the crash of Wall Street had left less astute investors penniless.
The business grew and expanded, and in the 1950s Reed’s father continued its advance, looking overseas for new avenues to explore. Now Gallaghers, as they were dubbed on the stock market, had shares in diamond mines in Africa, oil wells in Alaska, cattle ranches in South America; they owned an air charter company and a fleet of oil tankers; they farmed 10,000 acres of prime farmland in Somerset and Wiltshire, and their chemical laboratories had produced new and more sophisticated types of fertiliser to satisfy the standards of the stiffest conservationists. In fact, the Gallagher corporation was involved in most aspects of technological advancement, and its board of directors was a comprehensive mix of accountants, scientists, engineers, and statisticians—of which Reed classed himself among the latter.
Since his father’s retirement at sixty, three years ago, Reed himself had become the board’s chairman. He was young, only thirty when Joseph Gallagher adhered to his wife’s advice to retire, while he was still young enough to enjoy life. But in the past three years, Reed had confirmed the confidence his father had had in him and now, at thirty-three, there was little about the company he did not know. He had always been interested in maths and a degree in economics at Oxford had reinforced his natural ability to understand figures. In addition, he had spent at least part of each year visiting the company’s operations overseas, and although he had learned how to delegate, his intimate knowledge of each project made him a formidable adversary.
Reed had always loved the company. As a schoolboy, he had spent hours at the office during his holidays, watching the computors, studying the telex machine, as it rattled out its messages from all around the world. He found finance an infinitely fascinating subject, not simply in its capacity to make money, but rather as a means to exercise his mental abilities. It was a challenge to predict trends, to anticipate shortfalls, to try and keep one step ahead of the stock market. Had he not been able to step into his father’s shoes, he assumed he would have been an economist or a stockbroker, and sometimes, like today, he wished he had had the choice.
Reed’s office, the office his father and grandfather had occupied before him, was on the penthouse floor of the building, and overlooked the nearby recreation ground. At this hour of a Friday afternoon, he could see several joggers, doggedly marking the boundaries of the play area, and gradually the swings and roundabouts were set in motion, as children came from school to fill them up.
Reed glanced impatiently at the narrow gold watch on his wrist. What time was it? he wondered irritably, his mouth compressing when he saw it was only half-past four. Another hour-and-a-half before Celia had said she would arrive, so that they could drive down to Sussex together. Another ninety minutes before they set away for the weekend with Celia’s parents in the country.
Reed expelled his breath heavily. He was not looking forward to this weekend with the Lytton-Smythes. It wasn’t their fault; it wasn’t even Celia’s fault. He was just out of sorts with himself, and the idea of a weekend spent being polite to Celia’s parents filled him with depression.
Leaving the window, Reed walked back to his desk, idly flicking over the papers requiring his inspection. He had work he could do, but he was strangely lacking in application, and for the first time in his life he had no interest in whether the storms raging in northern Canada would delay their oil explorations another month, or if the overthrow of a certain central African dictator would facilitate their efforts to gain mining rights. He was bored and indifferent, the restless energy he usually poured into his business dealings lacking its normal direction.
There was no rational reason for his dissatisfaction, he acknowledged now, drumming his fingers on the tooled leather pad. There was no crisis in the company, no especial problem he had to deal with. Even his personal life was exactly as he had wished it. Celia was a beautiful girl, and their relationship was perfectly satisfactory. So what was wrong?
Thinking of Celia, he glanced again at his watch, but it was still only twenty-five minutes to five. Eighty-five minutes to take-off, he reflected broodingly, despising his introspection. Perhaps he needed a drink. Perhaps a small measure of alcohol would help to lift the demoralising cloud that was hovering over him.
Pouring himself a double whisky, he carried the glass back to his desk, and dropping down into his leather chair, he propped his feet on the desk. The alcohol felt good as it found its way down into his stomach, and he decided Ladbroke c
ould drive them down to Five Oaks. He felt like getting drunk, and there was plenty of time before Celia would put in an appearance.
Celia …
Studying the spirit in his glass, Reed thought about his fiancée. He had known a lot of woman, before she came along—the natural result of being Joseph Gallagher’s son, he always assumed, his father’s wealth overcoming a multitude of sins—but Celia was the first he had actually proposed to. She had seemed eminently fitted to being the wife of a man in his position, and as he was thirty-three, and his parents were eager for him to provide them with grandchildren, he had not objected to their active encouragement.
Besides, Celia was sweet; she flattered his ego; and if he occasionally found her conversation boring, it was no different from that of his friends’ wives. He did not want to marry a businesswoman. He found women in the professions were more concerned with advancement than their male counterparts, and while he did not resent their ambition, he wanted a wife, not a business partner. So why was he so out of humour with himself? The answer was one he had avoided thus far. Antonia Sheldon!
There was no earthly reason why her behaviour towards him should have bothered him so much; but it did! Ever since Tuesday, he had been brooding over what had happened that lunchtime, and her ugly reaction to his friendly invitation had exposed a raw nerve.
Reed was not normally a violent man. On the contrary, he was known for his good humour, his charming personality, that successfully concealed a brain as acute as one of his own computers. On the whole he was an even-tempered man, used to disguising his innermost feelings, even in the face of extreme provocation. But Antonia Sheldon got beneath his skin; she had the uncanny ability to stir emotions he had not known he possessed, and it was disconcerting to realise that with her he could not always control his feelings.
He had wanted to follow her into that institute where she worked on Tuesday afternoon. The simmering rage which had gripped him at her insolent response had almost overwhelmed his natural discretion, and driving back to his apartment he had entertained himself with visions of her colleagues looking helplessly on, while his fingers round her throat squeezed the life out of her.