and more fraught with tension—on her part!—the longer it went on. ‘I’m sorry, I still don’t know his surname,’ she added awkwardly as dark brows rose over icy grey eyes.
Lyon’s mouth thinned even more at the admission. ‘You didn’t get as far as exchanging last names?’ His contempt was obvious.
Her eyes flashed angrily at his implication. For God’s sake, Henry was old enough to be her grandfather!
‘It’s Winter,’ Lyon supplied abruptly. ‘Obviously Peter is going to do the appropriate tests, but he seems to think Henry will be fine after a few days in bed.’
Silke was relieved; she had become quite fond of the elderly man in the short time she had known him. And, if what she suspected about Henry and her mother was true, then her mother had once been more than fond of him!
‘Alone,’ Lyon added harshly before she could make any response.
Her eyes widened with indignation. ‘Now look—’
‘I told you before—I have,’ he drawled hardly, leaning forward to put his empty cup down on the table, his scathing gaze never leaving her angrily flushed face.
‘And I don’t meet your “requirements”,’ Silke recalled dismissively.
He gave an acknowledging inclination of his head. ‘But obviously you meet my uncle’s,’ he said disgustedly.
She shook her head at the arrogant assumption of this man. She had never met anyone quite like him before! ‘Do you think this badly of everyone you meet, Mr Buchanan?’ she challenged scornfully. ‘Or am I just the lucky one?’
The look he gave her was scathing in the extreme. ‘Women like you make me—’
‘”Women like me”?’ This time her indignation got the better of her as she sat ramrod-straight in the edge of her chair.
‘—sick,’ he finished disgustedly, as if she hadn’t just interrupted him, standing up as he did so, immediately dominating the room with his superior height. Although this man didn’t need his height, or his muscular build, to achieve that; he had an aura of power that would be apparent no matter what he looked like. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing with a man as old as Henry?’ He stood over her now, his close proximity threatening, his expression coldly furious.
‘I—’
‘Lyon, do you think we could talk now?’ interrupted the quietly authoritative voice of Peter Carruthers.
Lyon turned sharply to face the other man, and as Silke turned to look at him too, his expression innocently enquiring, she couldn’t help wondering how much of their conversation he had actually overheard before interrupting them; their voices hadn’t exactly been discreetly lowered! And as the consultant looked at her speculatively, Silke knew he had overheard far too much for her to feel comfortable remaining here any longer!
She stood up decisively. ‘I think I’ll leave now. As long as Hen—Mr Winter is going to be all right?’ Now that she knew the elderly man’s surname it sounded inappropriate—to her at least!—to call him by anything else. She could feel Lyon Buchanan’s contemptuous gaze upon her, but she ignored that in favour of looking at Peter Carruthers for his answer.
The consultant gave her a politely reassuring smile. ‘He’s going to be fine,’ he nodded non-committally.
That was good enough for Silke. She had done her bit as far as she was concerned, had accompanied Henry here as he had wanted her to; she had no intention of hanging around to listen to more of Lyon Buchanan’s insults! ‘I’ll telephone later and check on his condition, if that’s OK,’ she told Peter Carruthers, totally ignoring the brooding figure of Lyon Buchanan; she felt as if, if she looked at him again, she might give in to that impulse she had had earlier to kick him anywhere she could reach!
‘Of course,’ the consultant returned smoothly. ‘And your name is?’
Of course, the staff at this clinic wouldn’t give out information on one of the patients here to just anyone. ‘Silke Jordan,’ she supplied stiltedly, still ignoring Lyon Buchanan’s gaze, but easily able to guess at the contempt she would see in his face towards her if she should chance a glance at him; the damned man never seemed to look at her in any other way!
But, with the opinion he had of her relationship with his uncle, that wasn’t surprising. How she would love to wipe that superior smile off his face—the only problem was, she never would, because he was never going to believe anything she told him.
‘Miss Jordan,’ Peter Carruthers answered her. ‘We’ll expect your call,’ he nodded.
Feeling dismissed, Silke headed towards the door. If she were honest—and she wished she needn’t be!—she had to stop herself from breaking into a run, so anxious was she to get away from Lyon Buchanan.
‘Silke.’
Softly spoken in that way, her name on Lyon Buchanan’s lips nevertheless carried a wealth of authority. An authority Silke would have loved to ignore—and yet knew that she couldn’t, not with the other man present. She turned as she reached the door, her hand already on the handle, straightening even more defensively as she saw Lyon’s gaze fall mockingly on the movement. She returned his gaze enquiringly, the silence stretching awkwardly between them as he kept her waiting for his next statement.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he finally told her quietly.
She didn’t doubt it—but he would have to find her first. She didn’t actually work for her mother’s agency, only filled in if her mother was desperate, like today, and once she had spoken to her mother—if she could find her!—she would make sure her mother didn’t give this man her address. This time she had no intention of ever seeing this hateful man, with his nasty suspicious mind, ever again!
She nodded distantly. ‘My mother will be pleased to take your call.’ Although if her mother’s reaction to Henry Winter was anything to go by, Silke doubted her mother would be any more thrilled to hear from a member of this family than she would!
Dark brows rose over grey eyes. ‘Your mother?’
Silke could have kicked herself; he obviously hadn’t made the connection—despite her name—between herself and the owner of Jordan’s Miracles.
‘Your business is with her agency,’ Silke supplied coldly. ‘She’ll be happy to deal with you,’ she lied, sure that once her mother learned of Henry Winter’s connection to Buchanan’s she would sever the contract with them, no matter how important she had considered it earlier this morning.
Lyon Buchanan’s mouth tightened ominously. ‘Your mother owns the agency, and yet she sent you out this morning looking like a—’
‘I believe an apology has already been made for that particular mistake,’ Silke snapped abruptly, very aware of Peter Carruthers’ silent interest in their conversation—and she didn’t want the whole world to know of her involvement over the fiasco of her bunny girl outfit. ‘I’ll call later to check on Mr Winter,’ she told the consultant now, determined to make good her escape this time.
‘You haven’t heard the last of me, Silke,’ Lyon Buchanan told her harshly.
This time Silke
