Brent, but he did not live in the village and knew very little about him. ‘He never comes here. I’ve never seen him,’ was all the answer she got.
At five minutes to two she left and at two o’clock exactly she stood on the doorstep of Frenton Hall and pressed the bell, her heart for some reason hammering uneasily. This time the door was opened straight away, the same dour woman appearing on the threshold, her face still fierce and unwelcoming. ‘Mr Brent will see you,’ she said, standing back for her to enter.
Saira hid her tiny smile of satisfaction. It felt like a major achievement getting past this woman. They passed through a small entrance hall into a much larger gracious hall and she looked about her with curious eyes. It was colossal, with great white columns and a three-tiered staircase and doors leading in every direction, but rather than admire it she resented the fact that this man had all this wealth while he was apparently trying to do her out of one tiny cottage.
‘Through here,’ muttered the woman, pushing open one of the doors.
The library was of the same immense proportions, each wall filled with books sitting in orderly fashion on glassfronted shelves; deep, oak-framed armchairs flanked the stone fireplace, and in the hearth an arrangement of fresh roses spilled out their heady perfume. Privately she thought it a bit pretentious, all show and no warmth.
‘You don’t like it?’
The unexpected voice, deep-timbred and faintly condescending, made her spin on her heel and she found herself gazing into a pair of cold, intensely blue eyes. They were wide-spaced and long-lashed; in fact the man’s whole face was open, as though he had a frank, honest nature, though she knew that this could not be the case.
He had a wide, generous mouth which curled upwards at the corners as if he were smiling all the time, which again was definitely wrong; it wasn’t a pleasant smile, it was a mocking one. In fact his whole face was a contradiction. His eyes, though beautiful—far too beautiful for a man—were distant and assessing, his attitude faintly hostile as though he knew her reason for being here was not a friendly one.
‘What makes you think that?’ Saira locked her sloeshaped green eyes into his. He was extremely tall, with a muscle-packed body and wide, broad shoulders. Normally she was as tall as most men, but not in this case, and it annoyed her that she had to look up to him.
‘The way you were looking at it.’ His tone was crisp and faintly defensive.
‘As a matter of fact I was thinking that it didn’t look lived in,’ she announced coolly, then wondered at her temerity. It was wrong to rub this man up the wrong way when there was such a delicate issue at stake.
‘Maybe I don’t live in this particular room?’ His blue eyes were watchful on hers, cool and curious, his whole stance relaxed, though Saira guessed this could be a deliberate pose, designed to put her off guard.
‘But it is used?’ she queried.
‘Occasionally.’
‘Then it would look better if a book were left out on the table, a cushion askew.’ She was out of order, she knew, and it was most unlike her, but she already found this man a great source of irritation.
‘Blame my housekeeper, Mrs Gibbs,’ he said, his mouth curling up at the corners into a very definite smile this time, although it failed to reach his eyes; it was entirely without humour. ‘She runs around after me with a dustpan and brush. One speck of dust dare not land. She’s a zealot with a vacuum cleaner.’
Saira did not smile in return. Somehow she had imagined Jarrett Brent to be elderly, white-whiskered with a paunch, certainly not a devilishly handsome man in an expensive grey suit who had not yet reached his fortieth year. In fact he was probably nearer thirty than forty, possibly only a few years older than herself. The thought was disturbing. How could a man of his age have all this wealth?
‘I’m not here to discuss the whims of your housekeeper,’ she said shortly, wondering whether he had a wife and perhaps children, and, if so, where they were. Why this severe woman seemed to rule the roost.
‘Naturally not,’ he answered. ‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves? I’m——‘
‘Jarrett Brent,’ she cut in sharply, ‘yes, I know. And I’m Saira Carlton.’
He duly shook her hand and Saira was conscious of a warm, firm grip that lasted slightly longer than she liked. But if he thought he could mollify her by pretending to be friendly he was mistaken.
‘Please, take a seat,’ he said, gesturing towards one of the armchairs.
Saira shook her head. ‘No, thanks, I prefer to stand.’
Dark brows rose. ‘It’s your prerogative,’ and there was a distinct hardening to his tone. He clearly did not take kindly to her less than friendly attitude. ‘Is there something I can do for you, Miss Carlton? Gibbs said you had an important matter to discuss.’
‘That’s right.’ Saira drew herself up to her full height and was disappointed he still had the advantage; nevertheless her voice was firm. ‘Honeysuckle Cottage.’
A frown grooved his brow, drew thick brows together, and he began to shake his head, as if he did not know what she was talking about.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve not heard of it?’ Her tone was loaded with sarcasm. ‘It’s in the village, the first house round the corner from here. I’ve been told that you seem to think it belongs to you.’
His frown deepened. ‘Who told you that?’ he asked, a sharp, critical edge to his tone.
Saira held his eyes coldly. ‘I hardly think that’s relevant.’
‘I do not regard my business as the affairs of others,’ he told her sharply.
‘What are you saying? That you bought the cottage or not?’
He appeared to consider his answer; taking a couple of paces away from her and then turning again, several seconds elapsing before he said quietly, ‘I believe I did buy it.’
‘You believe?’ Saira snapped. ‘Then you believe wrong, Mr Brent. The house is mine.’ Her green eyes were ablaze with anger and she found it difficult to keep a limb still. This man was making fun of her.
‘If you are so sure it’s yours, what are you doing here?’ His blue eyes were fierce also, fixed on her with unnerving accuracy.
The seemingly innocent question provoked her even more. ‘Because the key I have been given won’t fit. You’ve changed the locks, damn you. You had no right, it isn’t yours. It belonged to my aunt and now—’
‘Elizabeth Harwood was your aunt?’ he cut in, his brows drawing together, his body growing still at this surprise information.
‘That’s right,’ snapped Saira, ‘and she—’
Again he interrupted her. ‘Elizabeth and I were very good friends.’
It was Saira’s turn to look astonished. ‘You don’t really expect me to believe that?’
He inclined his head, and now the smile was back in place. ‘It’s true, we had a fine friendship.’
‘And
