course,’ Grace confirmed instantly. ‘Timothy, don't do that with your potato, dear,’ she turned to scold gently.
Jordan watched her firm gentleness with the small boy, realising it was an occupation he could become fond of.
He must be getting senile!
Maybe he needed this holiday more than he had realised. He certainly was in a reflective mood today, for him.
But the food was good, even if the conversation did consist mainly of Timothy's questioning as to his opinion on one fast car after another. Never having owned any of the exclusive models the little boy mentioned, his opinion was an unlearned one, much to Timothy's obvious disgust. He could see by the end of the meal that he had fallen a couple of notches in the little boy's estimation.
Strangely, that mattered to him very much …
His experience with children was limited to his niece Diana, but, as she was only fifteen months old, and the admiration he felt for her was more than returned, it wasn't a very good example. Timothy, for all that he was only seven years old—another snippet of information he had given Jordan on that short drive out!—was an intelligent and discerning little boy. And, for reasons Jordan couldn't even begin to explain to himself, he wanted the two of them to get on together.
Although if he stayed on at Charlton House long, enjoying Grace's delicious cooking, he was going to put on weight!
Even at the leisure complex which Raff had made of his home, and which he and Rhea ran together, as a family they tended to eat in the hotel restaurant for convenience, and so it was months since Jordan had enjoyed the luxury of a home-cooked meal. Grace's chicken casserole had reminded him of just how good it could be.
‘The telephone is in the small room, next to the sitting-room, that I use as an office,’ Grace informed him as she stood up to clear away after the meal.
Jordan stood up too. ‘I'll help you do this first—–'
She was shaking her head even as he began to gather up the plates, firmly taking them from him. ‘You're a guest here, Mr—Jordan,’ she amended at his fierce look. ‘This is what you pay your rent for,’ she added dismissively.
And a very small amount it was too, he had learnt earlier. Jordan found it incredible to believe Grace could make any money at all from the small payment she asked for overnight accommodation and meals.
A house like this must have ten or twelve bedrooms already, and would benefit greatly by extension—could be worth a small gold-mine if it were renovated properly and run on a more businesslike basis.
His wandering thoughts had brought him back to the reason he had come to Charlton House at all. He and Raff, business partners in the luxury complex Raff had made of Quinlan House, had been searching around for another suitable house with grounds to make into a similar venture. His own personal assistant, given the task of seeking out such a property, had come up with Charlton House in the Lake District. Unfortunately, their advances to Grace Brown about selling the house to Quinlan Leisure, the name of the company Jordan and Raff ran the business under, had been rejected with a haste that had seemed pretty final. Not to be put off, Jordan had continued to correspond with Miss Grace Brown through his solicitors. She had remained adamant in her decision not to sell, which was when Jordan had decided to come up here himself to talk to her.
Taking on a false identity, which was sure to be misconstrued if discovered, seemed to have put an end to any negotiations he might have pursued in that direction himself. But for the moment he didn't care, felt more at peace with himself than he had for a long time. There was just Raff and Rhea's minds to put at rest and then he could forget about business completely for a while. Who knew? He might even start to enjoy life again. Now that would be a novelty!
‘If you're sure …’ he accepted politely, much more interested in going in search of the ‘office', he had to admit.
It wasn't so much an office as a private sitting-room, had the charm and neatness of Grace Brown stamped all over it. Not that the furniture or the décor in here were any more luxurious than in the room next door, because if anything the floral-covered sofa and armchair in here looked older than the furniture in the adjoining room. But they were clean, completely neat and tidy, as was the sideboard bearing several photographs, and the small dining-table Grace seemed to use as her desk, from the look of the neat piles of correspondence upon its surface. Jordan wouldn't be at all surprised if the half-dozen or so letters sent through his solicitor didn't sit among this number.
Sitting neatly in the middle of the table was the sought-after telephone. But it was to the sideboard bearing the photographs that Jordan went. There were several photographs of Tim, instantly recognisable, from babyhood up, and, next to these, formal photographs of a man with hair as bright a red as his two offspring—for this surely had to be Grace's father—and he was laughing down into the face of the woman who stood at his side, a woman with Grace's face and yet somehow different: her mother and father, Jordan knew without a doubt.
On the other side of these was a display of ones of Grace Brown from babyhood through to adolescence and on up to the present day. In at least two of these—it was exactly two, Jordan knew without hesitation!—a tall, blond-haired man stood at her side. Tall and blond, handsome in a rakish way, several years older than Jordan himself, vaguely familiar, as if Jordan should recognise him, and yet he didn't.
What was he doing in the photographs with Grace? Could he be her boyfriend? Jordan frowned at this possibility.
‘Did you manage to find the telephone?'
He turned with a guilty start at the husky sound of Grace's voice, although she didn't look accusing, just curious.
‘The pictures of Timothy caught my attention,’ he excused with a shrug—although it must be obvious to Grace that he hadn't been standing anywhere near the photographs of Timothy when she entered the room! ‘He's a lovely child.'
‘Yes,’ she acknowledged indulgently, moving further into the room to pick up one of the earlier photographs of her brother. ‘He was a good baby too,’ she reminisced, remembering the fun she and her father had had with the contented baby Timothy had been; it had been an outlet they had both needed after the death of her mother.
Jordan looked at her as she stood bent over the photographs, lost in memories he couldn't even begin to guess at, let alone share, her face given a warm glow from the light given off by the small lamp that stood on the sideboard.
She looked very young and vulnerable at that moment, no more than a child herself, certainly not capable of carrying all the responsibilities she seemed to have. Jordan wanted to take her in his arms and relieve her of all those responsibilities, wanted to smooth that frown from between her eyes, wanted to kiss the soft peach of those slightly parted lips—what the hell …?
Grace looked up, misunderstanding the scowl on his face, putting the photograph down with a thud. ‘I'll leave you to make your call,’ she excused, turning to leave.
Jordan was too dazed by his unexpected response to her seconds ago to try and stop her!
Oh, he wasn't as cold and removed from human need as his sister seemed to think he was, had been attracted to women, desired them, made love to them. But that attraction had always been to women, moreover women who knew exactly what sort of relationship he required of them, the relationship always terminating amicably, with perhaps an expensive gift of jewellery on his part to soften the blow of parting. These affairs had been games, with both players knowing the rules.
