Though Loris was well aware of Mark Longton’s tendency to be attracted by a pretty face, the notion that she needed to ‘keep an eye’ on him wasn’t a particularly pleasant one.
‘Don’t forget Mark Longton’s quite a catch,’ Isobel persisted. ‘A handsome, sexy man, still in his thirties, who runs a company and has money, isn’t to be sneezed at.’
‘I’m not interested in his money,’ Loris said flatly.
‘Well, you ought to be. Your father’s turned sixty, and if I can’t get him to change his will when he dies your stepbrother will get the lot and you’ll be left out in the cold…’
Simon, extrovert and loaded with charm, had always held pride of place in Peter Bergman’s affections and, knowing what she did know, Loris hadn’t been at all surprised by her father’s decision. But well aware that it had been a bitter blow to Isobel to learn that her husband’s son from his first marriage was to inherit everything, Loris said soothingly, ‘I really don’t mind if Simon does get the lot. I have a career I enjoy and—’
‘It shouldn’t be necessary for you to work. Your father could easily afford to give you an allowance—’
‘I’m twenty-four, not fourteen.’
Ignoring her daughter’s protest, Isobel rushed on, ‘Seriously, I’d never have married him if I’d known he’d turn out to be such an old skinflint.’
It was a familiar complaint, and one that Loris had learned to studiously ignore.
‘He’s even talking about giving up the London flat and semi-retiring to Monkswood.’
‘A lot of people work from home these days, and it would make it a lot easier to run the estate.’
‘Well, I don’t want to be stuck in the country the whole week. I’d go mad. But your father only thinks of himself, never of me. Weekends are bad enough—’ Isobel continued to complain ‘—unless we’re having a house party… By the way, I hope you remembered to bring some things?’
Loris and Mark were joining the weekend house party at Monkswood, the Bergmans’ country estate which bordered on the village of Paddleham.
‘Yes, I remembered.’
As the dance ended and the floor cleared, both women looked for Mark’s tall, thickset figure, but he was nowhere to be seen.
‘There’s still plenty of food on the buffet if you want to eat?’ Isobel suggested.
Loris shook her head. ‘I had a sandwich before I went to keep my appointment.’
‘Well, I could do with something. This latest diet is much too severe…’
At forty-seven, Isobel waged a continuous, and mainly losing, battle against the extra pounds that middle-age had piled onto her once-slim figure.
‘And I’m convinced the pills they gave me with it are making my migraines worse,’ she grumbled, as she disappeared in the direction of the buffet.
A waiter approached with a tray of champagne and, accepting a glass with a word of thanks, Loris sipped the well-chilled wine while her gaze travelled over the assembled company.
As she scanned the crowd, instead of Mark’s heavy, slightly florid face, with its thick black brows and dark eyes, she found herself looking for a stranger’s lean, tanned face, with clear-cut features and light, penetrating eyes.
A sudden fanfare called for the assembled company’s attention, and Loris watched as her father, her fiancé, and a thin, balding man, went up onto the dais in front of the band. Sir Peter Bergman, stocky and tough-looking, with shrewd blue eyes and iron-grey hair, stepped forward and held up his hand for silence.
‘Most of you already know that Bergman Longton and the American giant, Cosby, have been planning to amalgamate. I’m delighted to announce that that has now taken place, and William Grant—’ he drew the thin, balding man forward ‘—one of Cosby’s top executives, is here with us tonight to celebrate the event.’
There was a burst of applause.
‘This merger will make us one of the largest and, we confidently expect, one of the most successful companies in our particular field. We have decided to rename the UK part of our combined companies BLC Electronics.’ He raised his glass. ‘May BLC go from strength to strength.’
There was more enthusiastic applause, and the toast was drunk.
As the three men left the dais they were momentarily swallowed up by a surge of people wanting to shake their hands and offer congratulations.
When the excitement had died down and the crowd began to disperse, Peter Bergman and William Grant walked away together, talking earnestly.
Mark glanced towards where Loris was standing, striking in an aquamarine dress that clung to her slender figure. She smiled and moved in his direction, but his face was cold, and he turned away to join the woman he’d been dancing with earlier.
Stunned by the rebuff, Loris stopped in her tracks. Admittedly she was very late, but she had warned Mark in advance that she might be.
Still, she felt a certain amount of guilt, and if it hadn’t been for the blonde, who was laughing up at him, she would have gone over and apologised.
But uncertain of his reaction—Mark could be very unforgiving when something displeased him—she hesitated, having no wish to be humiliated in front of the other woman.
As she stood wondering how to retrieve the situation, a special St Valentine’s waltz was announced. ‘…at the conclusion of which, gentlemen, you may kiss your partner.’
Surely Mark would come over to her now?
But without hesitation he offered his hand to the blonde.
Biting her lip, Loris was about to walk away, when a low, attractive voice, with just a trace of an American accent, asked, ‘Will you dance with me?’
Turning, she found herself looking into a lean tanned face, with a straight nose, a cleft chin, and a mouth that was firm, yet sensitive. A very masculine mouth that sent tingles through her, a mouth she could only describe as beautiful.
Again she got that illusory feeling of having once known him, a haunting sense of recognition, without being able to place him.
His thickly lashed eyes, she saw at close quarters, were sea-green rather than the silvery-grey she had thought them to be. Their impact was just as devastating, making her pulses start to race and her breath come faster, so that it took a moment or two to steady herself.
Though part of her wanted to dance with this fascinating stranger, Loris was well aware that accepting his invitation would only serve to exacerbate things.
Despite the fact that Mark had a roving eye himself, since she’d agreed to marry him he’d proved to be both jealous and possessive, hating her to so much as look at any other male.
Bearing that in mind, she was seeking a polite way to refuse when, noting her hesitation, the man by her side asked sardonically,
