it. I’m curious—have you ever been in love?’
‘Mind your own business.’
‘You haven’t, have you?’ He smiled in satisfaction. ‘I don’t believe you’re totally ice-bound. Somewhere under the ice there’s fire, and I want to be the one to reach it.’
She gave him a scathing glance. ‘No chance, Don. No chance at all.’
He laughed. ‘We’ll see. As for Hearne, if you won’t even flirt with him at least be friendly. Courtesy costs nothing, does it? This is a business meeting. You can set the tone; you’re not stupid. And he doesn’t look the type to turn nasty, does he?’
No, she conceded silently. But men were often unpredictable and she was not comfortable with the prospect of having dinner alone with Matt Hearne in his flat. After what Don had said to him he might well think she was part of whatever deal they offered him.
She would ring him tomorrow and suggest they have dinner in a restaurant.
CHAPTER TWO
THE news that the two companies had had lunch together at the Savoy appeared in several morning newspapers, next day, and the press kept the phone lines busy all morning, but no statement was issued by either firm.
Bianca worked with Don for several hours, before he flew to Australia, to tie up loose ends of various projects they had in hand. He went off to lunch with some of the other executives, leaving her at her desk with a pile of paperwork to read through, so when the office lunch trolley came round she bought a yogurt, an apple and some cheese.
Patricia, however, said she had a lunch date with her fiancé, and went out, abandoning the letters she had to type, to Bianca’s irritation. She continued to work, eating her lunch at the same time, which was why when her phone rang she had her mouth full of cheese and apple.
As Patricia wasn’t around she picked it up, murmuring, ‘Mmm?’ between chews.
‘I would like to speak to Bianca Milne.’ She recognised the voice before he added, ‘My name is Matthew Hearne.’
Flushed, and hurriedly swallowing the food, she finally managed to say thickly, ‘This is Bianca Milne. Hello, Mr Hearne.’
‘Matt,’ he said, a smile sounding in his voice. ‘Are you having lunch at your desk?’
Startled and pink, she mumbled, ‘Er…yes, actually.’ Had it been that obvious?
‘Snap. So am I. What are you having?’
‘A Greek yogurt, a Cox’s apple and a piece of Cheddar,’ she said, hoping she didn’t sound as flustered as she felt.
‘That sounds much better than my ham and pickle sandwich. Is your boss there?’
‘I’m sorry, he’s out.’
‘No desk-bound lunch for him, eh? I suppose he’s having a rich lunch somewhere special, with lots of wine. How does he work after that?’
‘Don doesn’t drink much,’ she lied. Not much he didn’t. ‘Do you want him to ring you when he gets back, Mr Hearne?’
‘No, it was you I wanted to talk to. I picked up the impression that you weren’t too keen on the idea of eating at my flat tonight.’
She was silent—how did she answer that politely?
He laughed softly. ‘So why don’t I book dinner in a good restaurant? Any preferences?’
‘No,’ she said with relief. ‘I’ll leave the choice to you.’
‘Okay. I’ll pick you up at seven at your flat. See you then.’
‘My address is…’ she began, her words trailing into silence as she realised he had already hung up. That must mean he already knew her address. Well, she knew his, so why should she be surprised about that? No doubt his people had been very busy checking her and Don out ever since their hit began. It didn’t worry her because she had no secrets to hide; however deep they dug his investigators wouldn’t find out anything they could use against her. Don was another story. Who knew what secrets he had to hide?
He came into her room at five-thirty that day, as charged up as usual, and barked at her. ‘Still here? Go home now and make yourself beautiful for Hearne.’
She leaned back in her chair, her body giving a weary but graceful stretch in the clinging grey jersey dress she wore.
‘I will, soon. What time’s your flight for Sydney tomorrow?’
‘First thing, God help me. Now, keep me informed of how your talks with Hearne go, won’t you?’
‘Of course. Fax or phone?’
‘Phone. Faxes are too risky for this one—other people will read them before I do. I’ll ring you at home in the evening from my hotel, okay? That way we can be fairly sure we aren’t being overheard.’ He turned to go, said over his shoulder, ‘And, Bianca, you won’t wear anything as boring as that dress, will you? I want you to knock Hearne for six and have him putty in your hand by the time I get back.’
She glared after him. ‘I’ll be polite to the man, I don’t promise anything else!’
Bianca arrived home half an hour later having taken a taxi instead of her usual underground train. The office was close to a tube station and so was her home—a spacious flat on the top floor of a large Victorian house in Pimlico, just a street or two away from Pimlico underground station. From the high bay windows of her sitting room she had a view across gardens bright with spring flowers to the river. Her bedroom overlooked the back of the house; a large magnolia tree grew right outside, the delicate pale pink candle-like flowers just below her windowsill.
She opened the window to air the room and a wonderful scent of wallflowers and stocks floated in. Whenever she got home she felt peace descend on her. She had taken a good deal of trouble to give her flat a tranquil feeling—soft, soothing pale colours, landscapes hanging on the walls, a waist-high bookcase running halfway round the sitting room, a good stereo music centre where she played her favourite CDs when she was alone each evening, pretty lamps here and there shedding low light, a spacious, open feel to the rooms. This was where she unwound after the tensions and pressures of the day at work. This was where she could be alone, at ease, untroubled.
Don had never been invited, although he often dropped hints about wanting to see her home. She did not want the atmosphere ruined for her by memories of Don making a pass, or talking in his assertive, ruthless fashion about work.
First, she glanced through the mail waiting for her—a bill, a home shopping catalogue, a postcard. She knew who it was from as soon as she saw the picture on the front. Lake Como was where her father now lived. She read the few sentences in his large, black, sprawling handwriting. He was well and so was Maria, his second wife, and their son, Lorenzo, who had been eight yesterday and sent Bianca his love. The weather was wonderful; he hoped she was well, too. It could have been a card sent by a mere acquaintance.
That was what it was, she thought bitterly—a few words from a virtual stranger. What did she know about her father? From the day he walked out on her and her mother Bianca had only seen him half a dozen times.
