Bella’s eyes danced. ‘You sat next to him and your heart didn’t just melt?’
Annis thought of Konstantin Vitale: the Byronic looks; the intensity.
‘Not my type,’ she said with feeling.
Bella chuckled. ‘Mother will cut her throat.’
‘Tough,’ said Annis hardily.
Bella delivered her burden and came back to sit beside Annis on the ottoman at the end of Lynda’s impressive gilded bed.
‘Seriously, Mother’s going to despair. He was her prize. You have no idea how hard she had to work to get him here tonight.’
‘But I thought Dad asked him?’
Bella pulled a face. ‘You know Mother. Maybe she thought it sounded better coming from Dad. All I know is that she’s been planning this for weeks. He’s dropped out several times. That’s why she wasn’t going to ask you until the last moment.’
‘Ah,’ said Annis. So that explained the hurried invitation.
‘And your heart didn’t miss a beat? Not for a microsecond?’
She was not going to tell Bella that he had made her feel naked. Nor that her heart had been going like a steam hammer for longer than she could admit, even to herself.
So Annis put on her haughtiest business lady expression. ‘What heart?’
Bella snorted. ‘Don’t give me that. You’re as soft as Mother and me.’
‘Not,’ said Annis patiently, ‘about alleged heart throbs.’
Bella shook her head. ‘Don’t believe you.’
‘Look.’
Annis put her arm round her sister’s waist and walked them both over to Lynda’s full-length curlicued mirror. In spite of the scarf, her navy suit looked even more severe next to Bella’s gleaming bare shoulders. Bella barely came up to her chin, fragile and restless and heartbreakingly pretty. Whereas I, thought Annis, look like a troll. A tall troll.
Bella put her head on one side.
‘You look a bit pale,’ she allowed, ignoring all the other differences between them.
Annis gave a crack of laughter. ‘I did borrow some of Lynda’s lip gloss, honest. But then I splashed some water on my face and it must have washed off.’
‘When you ran away from the table, right?’ Bella nodded. ‘I noticed.’ She swung round and narrowed her eyes at Annis. ‘It didn’t look as if it was anything to do with Alex. It looked as if Kosta had upset you.’
Annis said nothing.
‘You shouldn’t take any notice,’ Bella said kindly. ‘He gets so involved in an argument he can’t let go. He doesn’t mean to be unkind.’
Annis looked at her incredulously.
‘Well, he means it at the time,’ Bella admitted. ‘But he forgets as soon as the argument is over.’
It sounded as if Konstantin Vitale was a more frequent visitor to the Carew household than Annis had realised. In which case, why had it taken Lynda the weeks that Bella had spoken about to get him to come to her dinner party?
Before Annis could demand an explanation, Bella went on buoyantly, ‘And anyway, you made Alex laugh.’
‘Bella,’ said Annis goaded. ‘I am a successful businesswoman and I like living alone.’
Why didn’t it sound convincing? It was true. Only, in her stepmother’s pretty bedroom, surrounded by designer cocktail gear and a heavy cloud of French perfume, it somehow lost that ring of truth.
And Bella, all smiling tolerance, made it ten times worse. She plainly did not believe a word. Annis could have screamed.
‘I—am—not—looking—for—a—man,’ she said loudly.
Gillie Larsen twinkled at her in the mirror.
‘Go for it, girl.’
Gillie was a new neighbour and had become a friend in the last few months. Annis twinkled back gratefully. It also gave her an idea. She registered a resolve to get Gillie on her own when the boudoir crowd thinned out.
Meanwhile, Bella said. ‘Look, you won’t get near mother’s dressing table for ages. Come to my room and I’ll lend you some blusher, at least.’
Annis went. Bella cleared a space on her dressing table and provided her with a hand mirror and a palette of colours. For a few moments, she watched Annis critically, then took the little brushes out of her hands and began to dust in colour with swift skill.
Lynda put her head round the door. ‘All right? Bella, the Larsens were asking about that guide to Ecuador.’
‘It’s in the study.’ Bella put down the brushes. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘Give it to Gillie, darling. She’s gone down to the drawing room.’
Bella went. Annis picked up one of the discarded brushes and flicked shadow across her eyelid in experiment. She leaned forward to peer at her reflection. It was not impressive.
‘Why does this stuff make Bella look like a million dollars and turn me into a clown?’
‘Practice,’ said Lynda, taking the palette away from her.
She handed her a small impregnated pad and Annis wiped the colour off her eyelid carefully.
‘I could give you a session at Cosmic Works,’ Lynda said tentatively. ‘They teach you how to highlight your best features, what colours suit you best in various lights, that sort of thing.’
Annis dabbed away the last of the eye shadow. ‘No time.’
Lynda sighed but did not demur. For all her apparent fluffiness, she seldom lost focus. ‘So how did you like your dinner companion?’
Annis met her eyes in the mirror. There was a speaking silence.
‘In another age you would be tried as witch you know,’ she said at last.
Lynda smiled. ‘A white witch, darling. You know I only want the best for you.’
And the trouble was she did. As a stepmother she had only one failing. While Jamie had been around it had been easy to keep her at bay, but since they’d broken up Lynda had been more determined than ever to find her stepdaughter a suitable partner for life. Annis was torn between affection and despair.
‘If only your idea of what is best for a woman wasn’t someone tall, dark and handsome to take all the decisions and keep her warm at night!’
Lynda laughed. ‘Darling, you’re so serious. I just want you to have some fun.’
‘Well, I didn’t have a lot of fun with this evening’s candidate,’ said Annis. ‘He tried to grill me.’ She swung round on the dressing stool. ‘Why does he dislike Dad so much?’
‘Does he?’ Lynda sounded surprised.
‘Not much doubt. And another thing,’ said Annis, cheering up at the thought, ‘he doesn’t like me for the same reasons. Whatever they are.’
‘Don’t be silly, darling. You’re always thinking people don’t like you and it’s not true.’
‘No, I’m not. I just—’
‘The trouble is that you work so hard you forget how to talk to people. Your father,’ said Lynda in the tone of someone quoting the oracle, ‘is very worried about it.’
Annis gave a choke of laughter.
Lynda glared. ‘He is.’
Annis stood up. ‘If he is, it’s because you told him he had to be,’ she said fondly. ‘You know perfectly well the only thing Dad and I ever talk about is work.’
Lynda sighed and muttered. But she could not deny it.
Tony Carew might not have noticed when his only daughter stopped talking about James Gould and dropped ten pounds in a couple of weeks. But he knew the business plan of her new venture inside out and had a pretty good grasp of the partnership’s current client list.
‘No talking business tonight?’ It was somewhere between a plea and an order.
‘I’ve resisted so far,’ Annis said kindly. ‘But I thought you wanted me to network.’
‘Not with your father.’
Annis laughed. ‘OK. If Dad corners me I’ll talk about Alex de Witt’s new play. All right?’
Lynda beamed. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘you can be a lot less difficult than you like to pretend. I must go and pour coffee. Come down when you’re ready.’
But Annis had a plan to car
ry through first. She cornered Gillie Larsen.
‘I need a favour,’ she muttered under her breath.
Gillie was perceptive. She detached herself from her conversation and moved into the hallway where they would not be overheard.
‘What is it?’
‘A lift home. I came by taxi and I don’t want Lynda to organise someone into doing chauffeur duty.’
Gillie was not deceived, though she identified the wrong potential chauffeur. She grinned. ‘Don’t trust Alex de Witt’s driving? OK, you can catch a ride with us. But we’ll have to go soon. We’ve got a sitter.’
‘The sooner the better,’ said Annis with feeling.
‘Poor Annis. Who’d have fairy stepmothers?’ teased Gillie. ‘Grab yourself a quick coffee and we’ll go.’
Everyone had congregated in the drawing room. Lynda waved a hand towards the bookcase but Annis would have found the chair Lynda had designated for her with the ease of long experience. Far enough away from her father not to talk business. Not close enough to any of the artwork to break it, thought Annis, slipping into the low chair in the corner.
Someone gave her a tiny cup of coffee, fragile as glass.
‘Thank you,’ she said, concentrating.
Lynda had brought the cups from Japan and they were beautiful and unique.
‘I said I’d find you,’ purred a voice in her ear. It was a voice that she was coming to know.
Annis jumped so violently that the little cup hopped on its saucer. There was an ominous tinkling sound.
‘Aagh,’ she said, pardonably.
He caught an apostle spoon mid-air, one-handed. Then he took the rocking cup away from her.
‘You’re death to crockery, aren’t you?’ he said, amused.
‘Not just crockery,’ said Annis, betrayed into shameful truth by shock. ‘I’ve been known to push my chair back into an Arabian urn in my time. The insurance paid up but it was touch and go. That’s why Lynda sent me over here. Maximum shadows, minimum hazards.’
He laughed. ‘Well, I appreciate the removal of hazards but I think the shadows are a shame.’
It was his caressing voice. In spite of herself Annis felt a faint heat rising in her cheeks. She swallowed, avoiding his eyes.
The delicate saucer was awash with coffee but he did not, Annis saw with irritation, spill a drop as he put it down on the bookshelf behind her head. He passed her a handkerchief.
‘What’s this for?’
She had to look up a long way. The little dress seat was very small and Konstantin Vitale was taller than she had allowed for. It hurt her neck and her pride about equally.
He smiled. ‘You may want to blot your front. Or I’ll do it if you like.’
Annis snatched the handkerchief and dabbed at the dark patch on the breast of her jacket. He laughed.
‘Thank you,’ she said glacially.
‘My pleasure.’ It sounded as if he meant it.
‘Grr.’
A tall man whipped round at her growl. ‘Oh, sorry, Annis, did you want a chocolate?’ It was Laszlo Larsen, Gillie’s husband. He looked startled. He had probably never heard a woman growl before.
‘No,’ snapped Annis, still glaring at her tormentor.
Laszlo blinked. Konstantin took the gold box of dark chocolate truffles away from him and passed them on.
‘Don’t worry. She just likes things to be clear,’ he told Laszlo reassuringly.
Annis froze. There was a horrible assumption of intimacy in the throw away remark. It was as if Konstantin Vitale knew her well enough to explain her feelings to third parties.
He sent her a quick look. ‘Or so she tells me,’ he added with an understanding smile.
That was worse. He really can read my mind, thought Annis, shaken. She was silenced, appalled at the implications of that.
Laszlo did not notice. He smiled. ‘Vitale, isn’t it?’ He held out his hand. ‘Larsen. I read your article on smart buildings. Impressive stuff.’
Suddenly she realised what he must be doing for her father. Tony Carew had a thing about smart buildings.
‘You’re an engineer?’ she said abruptly.
‘Architect.’
Larsen glanced down at her, surprised. ‘The architect. He’s designed Tony’s imperial palace on the river. Didn’t you know?’
‘Sorry,’ Annis said, not sounding it. ‘Lost the plot on that one. Too busy. I’ve been setting up my own business, you know.’
Laszlo, a banker, did know. All too soon he was telling Konstantin how brilliant she was, how her clients sang her praises. He went on until his hostess claimed his attention.
Annis drew a relieved breath and debated whether she dared risk picking up her coffee again. She looked at the high tide in the saucer and decided against it.
‘Why am I so clumsy?’ she asked the air.
‘Why worry? It clearly doesn’t affect your success.’
Annis turned her head. She wasn’t flattered. Their private battle wasn’t over yet. They both knew it. So she was deeply suspicious when he paid her a compliment.
‘Success?’
‘If you’ve got de la Court on the books, you’re a success,’ he said positively.
‘You know him?’
‘We have a lot in common. Small operation. High technology. Unique personal vision. Probably both geniuses, if he’s on your books, maybe I could use you.’
‘You could use a modesty transplant,’ said Annis, outraged.
He was still pursuing his own line of thought. ‘There seems to be a problem in the London office and I don’t know what it is. Do you think you could handle it?’
Annis was tempted to say a number of things she would probably regret later. But Roy was teaching her caution.
‘Depends,’ she said not very graciously.
Konstantin looked amused. ‘A good consultant’s answer. No promises, no commitment.’
Annis curbed her irritation. ‘I mean it depends on the problem.’
He raised a sceptical eyebrow.
‘Look,’ she said with heat, ‘I’ve seen everything from geriatric product to a homicidal manager. I can make suggestions about new product lines. I’ve no cure for mania.’
‘Oh, that wouldn’t be a problem for us,’ he said airily. ‘There’s no manager in the London office.’
Annis stared. ‘You’re joking, right?’
He looked faintly annoyed. ‘Why should I be? Cut into the twenty-first century, Ms Carew. This is the digital age. We talk all round the world by tickling a mouse. Managers are an anachronism. Now, want to take us on?’
Well, that was probably the answer to his problem, Annis thought. Whether he would accept it, of course, was another matter. She had met self-willed geniuses before and they did not make rewarding clients. She pursed her lips.
‘We’ve got a lot on at the moment…’
He did not moderate his triumph. ‘I thought not.’
She narrowed her eyes and fixed him like a gimlet. ‘But I can see that this one could be a challenge. I’ll take a look and give you a quote.’ She fished under the chair for her bag and pulled out her personal organiser. ‘When would suit you?’
It was bravado, of course. She never thought for a moment he would take her up on it. Did she? Three days later Annis was still asking herself that.
Vitale and Partners had a small, crowded office in a late-eighteenth-century house in Mayfair. There were papers and magazines on every chair so there was nowhere for a visitor to sit. The phones rang all the time. The water dispenser was leaking and the coffee machine looked about to explode. People ran past her at the trot, shouting incomprehensible instructions to each other. The girl in charge of this chaos was standing in a half-open doorway being shouted at.
‘Great,’ muttered Annis.
She scooped a pile of glossy style magazines off the sofa and plonked them on the floor. That gave her somewhere to sit down. She did.
And rose swiftly. She had sat on an umbrella. It was
nearly but not quite closed and a couple of its spikes had attached themselves like a hungry sea anemone to her smart grey skirt. It was also, she found as she tried to detach it, still wet.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to the girl who was still being rebuked.
The girl sent her a harassed look, turned back to the room from which the invective was pouring, hesitated…
Annis lowered her voice and, as she had been taught, projected.
‘Excuse me.’
Everyone in the vestibule froze. Even the ringing telephones seemed to falter briefly.
Then another door banged back on its hinges.
‘Workaholic Carew,’ said Konstantin Vitale. He looked delighted. ‘I wondered when you’d get here. You’re late.’
‘I’ve been here fourteen minutes,’ Annis said precisely. ‘And I’ve been bitten by an umbrella.’ She gestured to her unwanted appendage. ‘Can you unhook me, please?’
‘Ah. I’ve heard about that habit of yours,’ he said, weaving his way through the debris.
‘Of mine?’ Annis was nearly speechless.
‘And seen it at work,’ he went on. ‘Death to household appliances and crockery, aren’t you, Carew?’
He detached the thing and cast it back onto the sofa.
Annis retrieved it.
‘You want an old umbrella?’ he said, eyebrows raised.
‘I think,’ she said with restraint, ‘that it might be a good idea to remove it before someone else sits on it.’
He pulled a face. Clearly the sort of detail that was way beyond his lofty consideration, thought Annis. She found she was shaking with temper.
He crooked a finger at the girl in the doorway. ‘Lose this man-eating umbrella, will you, Tracy?’
Summoned by the big cheese, the girl did not hesitate any longer, Annis noticed. She also noticed that the girl looked at him almost with worship as she removed the umbrella from his disdainful fingers.
Annis took her first step as Konstantin Vitale’s management consultant. It was pretty low-grade but at least she was asserting herself. ‘No. Don’t lose it. Give it back to whoever brought it in. Make them put it somewhere safe or bin it.’
‘Er—’ said Tracy.
‘Well, go on,’ said Konstantin. ‘It seems a bit micro but this is what the lady is being paid for. Give it to the owner.’
The Millionaire's Daughter (The Carew Stepsisters Book 1) Page 4