‘If you can clear your desk before you go we can all spread out a bit.’
‘I’ll be in tomorrow,’ she promised, and, armed with work she would have to catch up on that evening, she went to her car. Instead of heading home, though, she made for the offices of J. Dangerfield, Engineers.
Her telephone enquiry had yielded the information that Mr Dangerfield was in, but was busy. She smiled. No problem.
Glad that it was a non-rainy October day, Leyne parked her car and went and found herself a vantage point. Without doubt chairmen as busy as Jack Dangerfield appeared to be did not keep to nine-to-five hours. Though if he was going to work very late—and Leyne was prepared to stay there until midnight if need be—she would have to ring Dianne again.
That phone call, however, proved unnecessary when, at half past four, the main doors of J. Dangerfield, Engineers, opened and a man she instantly recognised from his newspaper picture came, briefcase in hand, out through the doors.
He was a fast mover, and was down the steps before she had got over her surprise and budged an inch. Then she was galvanised into action. Fortunately he was heading her way.
‘Mr Dangerfield!’ She accosted him before they drew level.
His eyes flicked over her neat and curvaceous figure, taking in her lovely face and hair, and superb blue eyes. ‘You have the advantage,’ he paused to drawl charmingly.
‘Leyne Rowberry,’ she supplied, and looked into his eyes for a flicker of recognition at her name. There was none, but a small gasp of breath escaped her. Oh, my word, those eyes! There was no need to ask from where Pip had inherited her lovely green eyes. Nor too her jet-black hair. ‘Er—I wrote to you.’ She gathered herself back together to explain.
‘You did?’ He glanced at his watch, all too plainly a man in a hurry.
‘You didn’t reply.’
‘And what did you write about, Miss Rowberry?’ he enquired, everything about him telling her she had about five seconds before he strode off and left her standing there.
‘It’s a family matter,’ she replied, adding for good measure, lest he thought the problem was solely hers, ‘Your family.’
He did not like that. All too clearly, as a chilly expression came over his good-looking features, his family were sacrosanct. He made to move off.
There was no time to dress it up. ‘To be more precise, I wrote to you because of your daughter!’ she said quickly.
That stopped him dead in his tracks. ‘My what?’ he demanded, an expression of such total astonishment replacing his chilly look that Leyne had the most appalling sensation that he did not even know he had a daughter.
Immediately she discounted that notion. That couldn’t be right—could it?
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