was still feeling the same when she got up the next morning and went down the stairs, musing that her only reason for coming here had been so that her parents should enjoy the tranquillity of their retirement and not be upset that she was upset.
But, and she could hardly believe it, she did not feel as emotionally broken as she had supposed she would when the numbness of Martin Walker’s dreadful deceit had worn off. What she did feel was disgusted with him, and disbelieving of her own naivety. So—if there was nothing for her parents to be upset about—what in creation was she doing here? Suddenly she realised that—she could go home!
Leon was in the kitchen. He poured her a cup of coffee and, impulsively, before she could think it through, she blurted out, ‘Would it put you out too much if I left?’
He was standing by the draining board and studied her with cool grey eyes. ‘Good morning,’ he replied, and took a swig of his coffee. Her lips twitched, but if he noticed he paid no heed, but told her easily, ‘I wouldn’t be at all put out. You’re quite free to go whenever you wish.’
Truly, he didn’t give a light. But something, she knew not what, but something in the way he said it caused her to hesitate. And when she should have been skipping up the stairs to gather her belongings together, she stayed. Stayed to question, ‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘I’ve said so,’ he answered curtly. ‘Though if you’re in touch with your friend Metcalfe before I am you might tell him to take my name off his CV.’
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