back seat. ‘You’re a very nervous passenger.’
‘Yes, I...speed makes me nervous,’ she admitted. ‘Men who own sports cars usually drive fast. You don’t, though. But then...you’re different from most men.’
‘Really?’ He laughed drily. ‘I doubt that, Audrey. I doubt that very much.’ And lanced her with the oddest look before abruptly turning away from her to alight.
Her forehead puckered into a puzzled frown as he guided her up the internal spiral staircase to emerge on the lowest level of the split-level dwelling. What had he meant by that remark, and that look? That he was no better than Russell? That he might consider seducing an heiress, even if she wasn’t all that attractive?
Even though she couldn’t believe her shining knight would do such a thing, Audrey’s newly cynical self still went on the alert.
But the sight of the huge living-room with its high raked ceilings and wood-panelled walls reassured her again, as did the furniture and rugs—all valuable antiques. People didn’t rent homes full of such treasures, she decided logically. They owned them.
‘You must be very well off, Elliot,’ she said, relieved eyes sweeping around in a full circle. Goodness, if she wasn’t mistaken that was a Renoir on the wall. And a Gauguin! They didn’t look like prints, either.
‘Very,’ he agreed, striding across the room to throw the newspaper on an ornate Edwardian coffee table. ‘Make yourself at home.’ He waved towards the brown leather studded sofa that faced the fireplace.
‘What exactly do you do?’ she asked as she sat down.
Elliot had moved over to the cold hearth of the marble fireplace when she threw this question at him. He sent her a wry glance over his shoulder then bent to put a firestarter into the dead ashes before arranging some kindling and firewood in a criss-cross pattern. ‘What do I do?’ he drawled as he struck a match. ‘Let’s see, now...’
He stood up and turned to face her, a sardonic smile on his face. ‘Actually I haven’t been doing much at all lately. I went skiing a fortnight back. Yesterday, I read a fairly good book. Tomorrow I’m going to try my hand at betting on the races.’
‘Don’t you work?’
‘Shall we say, I have no need to unless I want to? And I haven’t been wanting to this year.’
‘Goodness,’ she exclaimed, totally intrigued by him now. ‘Were you born rich?’
‘Not at all.’ Elliot proceeded over to his built-in bar. ‘What do you fancy? Gin? Vodka? A glass of white wine?’
‘Oh—er—yes, white wine.’
He turned and extracted a bottle of Riesling from a wall fridge, opening it like a man who’d had a lot of practice. Pouring a glass each, he carried them over to the sofa.
Fascinated, her eyes followed his every move. He was so unconsciously graceful, yet so...masculine.
‘The truth is,’ he said as he handed over her glass and sat down in front of the crackling fire, ‘I was once married to a rich woman.’
Shock sent her wine glass trembling, and wide eyes flashing to his. ‘You mean you married a woman for her money?’
His self-irritation was obvious by the expression on his face. ‘No, of course not. Please don’t think that. I was merely explaining where a lot of my money came from. Moira died, you see. Late last year. Viral pneumonia,’ he finished tersely before she could ask.
Audrey was taken aback that a person could die of pneumonia in the modern-day world of antibiotics. And said so.
‘My wife suffered from multiple sclerosis for some time,’ he elaborated reluctantly, ‘and had developed an aversion to doctors. I was away from home when she came down with what she thought was flu. Friends tell me she refused to call in a doctor. When I arrived home she was very ill. I raced her to hospital but she died within hours.’
‘Oh, how awful for you, Elliot,’ Audrey murmured.
He looked uncomfortable with her sympathy, his fingers tightening around his glass. ‘Yes,’ he said gruffly. ‘Yes, it was.’
For her part, Audrey could not get out of her mind how devastating such a situation must have been. To have one’s wife, or husband, snatched away so...unexpectedly young. But then, sudden death was always devastating. Nothing could ever prepare you for the gaping hole left in one’s life when a loved one was wrenched away abruptly.
Audrey knew she was going to cry if she kept thinking on that subject. With an enormous strength of will, she pulled herself together, straightening her shoulders and taking a steadying breath. Only then did she notice Elliot was watching her very closely, a thoughtful expression on his face. Quite quickly she lifted her drink and took a sip, feeling embarrassed by his intense scrutiny.
‘You...didn’t have any children?’ she asked.
The muscles in his jaw clenched down tightly. ‘No. Moira couldn’t have any. Can we change the subject?’ he demanded brusquely.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ She felt guilty for having been so insensitive. Clearly he had loved this Moira very much. And was missing her terribly. Audrey fell awkwardly silent.
‘Tell me about Russell,’ he said at last.
A shudder went through her. ‘Do I have to?’
‘I think it might be a good idea,’ he stated matter-of-factly. ‘Perhaps I can give you a different perspective on the man, show him up for what he is. Someone not worthy of any heartache.’
‘Believe me, I can see that already.’
‘What about your father?’
She frowned. ‘My father?’
‘Did he know you were going out with this Russell fellow?’
Her chest tightened. ‘Yes.’
‘And he approved?’
She shrugged in an effort to ease her instant inner tension. ‘He seemed pleased a man was taking some interest in me at last. My father is one of those men who thinks women are nothing if not married. He considers me prime spinster material,’ she finished with a bitter laugh.
‘That’s rubbish on all counts! Women don’t have to marry early these days. Or at all, for that matter. Either way, you’re only a spring chicken.’
‘I’m twenty-one next week.’
His laughter was dry. ‘Positively ancient.’
‘It is if you look the way I do. Lavinia always says that with money even the plainest girls can look good when they’re young, but after a certain age it’s downhill all the way.’
Audrey was startled by the look of sheer fury that flashed into his eyes.
‘And who,’ he ground out, ‘is Lavinia?’
‘My stepmother.’
